


I Gave My Love

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A great lot of smittenness, Absolutely nil drama, Amazing Wizarding device, Antiquarians, Ballet, Birds, Brooms, Completely vile ex-Ministry employee (offstage), Cows, Dancing, Fluff and Humor, HP Holiday Mini Fest, Ice Skating, Joy of the season, Long slow love story, M/M, Mystery gifts, No darlings were murdered in the making of this fluff froth, No top/bottom specified, Not-Oblivious Harry, Partridges, Pear Trees, Puns & Word Play, Romance, Shopping, Smitten Draco Malfoy, Smitten Harry Potter, So sopping wet it's dripping, Wise Ron Weasley, carols, hangovers, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Mysterious 'presents' coming Owl Post, Ron wigging out daily, and Draco being all sorts of Slytherin (or just even morehimself, really); what's the story with this Twelve Days Rite anyway?  All this and more Harry ponders, as he and Malfoy wend their days through the exacting grind of updating theMagical Games Standards Manualbefore year's end and everyone else participates in a mad orgy of Twelve Days Gifting.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 44
Kudos: 102
Collections: HP Holiday Mini Fest 2019





	1. A Pine Cone

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywaywardsin  
> and the fabulous L

_Day One: I Gave My Love A Pine Cone_

“Your mail, Potter.” 

Harry smiled up at Malfoy as he slid a cuppa and a small package onto his desk, and gratefully shoved aside the dry-as-dust report on irregular bludger sizes he’d been doggedly slogging through. 

“Ta,” he said, taking up the tea and eyeing the package. It was barely larger than the mug he was holding and shaped like a plain brown-paper-wrapped beehive. “What’s this, then?” 

“No idea,” Malfoy replied airily, moving on to his own desk and seating himself behind the pile of Archival statistics on how the international date line affected player morale. “But there it was, in your cubby, so I brought it up. You may thank me for my trouble at any time now.” 

“Well, thanks,” Harry said pleasantly enough and took out his wand. He cast a few basic spells on the packet before determining it contained nothing nasty and set his cup down, preparing to open it. There was no return address, nor any markings other than an elegantly penned label which read: ‘Harry Potter, Ministry, Level Seven’. “I didn’t order anything by Owl Post, though. I wonder what it might be?” 

Malfoy chuckled darkly and peered at Harry over the rim of his reading specs. “Hopefully not some new and creative way of shipping someone’s used knickers in tribute to the Golden Boy, Potter. But it shouldn’t have got past the Post Wizards if that were so, so you should be safe enough. Go ahead, then.” 

“I will,” Harry replied, and proceeded to rip off the brown paper, revealing an egg-shaped object that was perfectly familiar. “Right, what? It’s a bloody pine cone, Malfoy. Why would anyone send me a pine cone?” 

“Oh?” Apparently energized by this revelation, Malfoy sprung up and left his desk, coming round to Harry’s with a frown on his face, his wand at the ready. “Let me see, will you?” 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, Malfoy’s concern touching off an instant reaction. “It’s not Dark, is it? Malfoy?” 

Malfoy didn’t reply but took up the innocuous little pine cone instead and examined it this way and that, whispering several rapid spells over it and even holding it up to the light. Nothing happened, other than the scent of pine sap increased with handling. Finally he set it back upon Harry’s desk, still frowning faintly, but more in a puzzled fashion. 

“Malfoy?” Harry prompted. “What do you think? Should I be worried?” 

“No,” Malfoy allowed, resting his hip against the corner of Harry’s desk and tucking his wand back up his sleeve. "There's nothing untoward." The scent of pine, now that the little brown cone had been jostled about, added a festive note to the normally drab air of their smallish run-of-the-mill Ministry office. “But you may want to expect more of this sort of thing, Potter. It’s Twelve Days, you know.” 

“Twelve Days?” Harry frowned in recollection. “Oh, yeah, I remember. Ron has been rabbiting on about that for a while now. Something about finding the perfect gift for your ‘true love’ and presenting it during the season, isn’t it?” 

He shrugged, happy in the knowledge this didn’t affect him, _officially_ ‘relationship-less’ as he was currently, other than feeling a sort of mately concern for Ron. 

“Yes,” Malfoy replied, getting up and strolling back to his own desk. “Pretty much that, more or less. It’s an old tradition, of course, and not everyone observes it these days, what with all the other traditions and rituals going on.” He seated himself and took up the top file on his pile of statistics with a weighty sigh and a moue of resignation. “Yeah, so,” he said, flipping it open and glancing over at Harry. “We’ve a slog ahead of us if we’re to manage the update to Rules and Regulations by year-end, Potter. Ready to crack on now your little mystery’s been solved?” 

“Huh,” Harry replied, taking up the cone and placing it in the bottom catch-all drawer of his desk. “S’pose so.” It was haphazard sort of system but it was an organized sort of heap nonetheless; besides, only he and Malfoy knew where everything important actually resided. “But it’s not really ‘solved’, is it? Dunno who sent it, do I?” 

Malfoy hummed absently, turning a file page and running his wand tip across it, contrarily managing to appear both supremely uninterested but still willing to listen to Harry’s chatter.

“I mean, aren’t you curious too, Malfoy?” Harry prodded, picking up the disgustingly thick bound report on the manufacture of bludgers and how safety-and-materials standards had been slipping, according to any number of supposed impartial observers. “It’s not every day I get fan mail, not now. And we were almost Aurors once, remember? You’d think some of that training would’ve stuck.” 

“No,” Malfoy replied flatly, discarding his file with a departing glare at it and taking up another. “I’m not, so much. It’s clearly a prank or something, and harmless; nothing to concern either of us, really. Speaking of concern, though, you’ve not forgotten we’ve a reservation this evening at that new place in Paris? The one you’ve been too shy to try, Potter. Sharp seven is our portkey.” 

He stared expectantly over at Harry, who started, bounced guiltily in his chair and blushed madly. “Oh!” 

“Yes, ‘oh’, Potter,” Malfoy bit out. He wrinkled his nose at Harry, emanating disapproval. “You actually had forgotten, hadn’t you? When it took me months to even get us in the door during the holidays, too. Shame!” 

“I-I’m sorry!” Harry cast down his file and stood up in a hurry, catching up his cloak he’d casually slung over the back of his chair. “I’ve left my change of clothes at home, Malfoy! I have to pop off and get them!” 

“Ah, yes,” Malfoy replied dryly, and peered over the tops of his silver-rimmed reading specs, indicating with a slight jerk of his sharp chin his own carefully hung evening garb, neatly hangered and resplendent on the back of their office door. “This again. I swear, Potter, it's not a normal day for you unless there’s some sort of sartorial emergency. Do run and fetch them, as they’ll not let us in otherwise.” 

“Right, yes, sorry--I’m going. Back in two shakes!” Harry nodded frantically and slammed his way out of their office, determined to be right snappy about it. It wasn’t that he’d be reprimanded for leaving his post during Ministry hours; far from it. It was more that he hated, ever so much, to see that disappointed look in Malfoy’s eyes, even for an instant.

Well...it would be _Draco’s_ eyes. As of seven sharp in Paris, at least. 

It had been quite a few months, maybe even as long as a year. Possibly longer even than that? Yes, definitely. Harry grinned to himself, rushing madly to make to the lift at the Atrium. He and Malfoy--or rather ‘Draco’, as Harry now always addressed him when they weren’t on official Ministry time--had been rather an _item_ , but in a very sub-level, low-key sort of way. Exclusive, yes, at least on Harry’s part, though he couldn’t vouch for Draco, but also not exactly announcing their ill-defined, nebulous but stable, inexplicably romantic connexion to all and sundry, either. In fact, they’d been so chary of attention that not even the worst of the gossip rags-- _Witch Weekly_ \--had uttered so much as a murmur in print. For which Harry thanked Merlin rather often and quite fervently, ta. Of course, mostly everyone who truly mattered to either Harry or Draco knew of it already and didn’t seem inclined to minge about it or harass either of them, so it wasn’t exactly a world-changing circumstance. More comfortable and easy, if anything. Much as they themselves had been with each other since good old Auror training days. 

It didn’t take long, thank Hermes and Thoth, to be back again at the Ministry and safely returned to Level Seven, clutching his carefully-chosen-by-Draco attire in hand and bearing steaming hot cups of cinnamon-dusted cocoa as a peace offering for his forgetfulness. Malfoy had smiled at him, charmingly appeased, and snogged him brief-and-hard up against the closed door by ways of thanks. Then they’d rolled up their mental sleeves and had gotten down to work, slaving over the desperately needed changes to the practically Biblical-status _British Isles Standards Games & Sport Manual_.

Supper had been lovely, as well. Pheasant or partridge or some such little roasted fowl under glass and then treacle-pear tarte for pudding, and Draco being even more charming than before, all beneath the starry, starry skies of Gay Paree. They’d even gone clubbing after, and Harry--waking up warm and toasty next to Draco the next morning; thank Morgana for weekends, right?--managed to forget all about the little niggling sense of worry the strange pine cone present had stirred in him. 


	2. A Mitten

_Day Two: I Gave My Love A Mitten_

  
“Ugh, Harry,” Draco groaned, rolling over. “There’s something knocking and pounding at the window; make it stop?”

“Um, but,” Harry hedged, not particularly wishing to leave his nice warm bed and the rather nicer naked male body budged up against his backside. “No? Why _me_?” 

“‘Cause you live here, silly git, not me,” Draco mumbled into Harry’s tangled curls, breathing hot down his nape. Contrarily, he tightened the arm he’d slung across Harry’s midriff, shifting half over him to snuffle his pointy nose along the underside of Harry’s jawline, pressing small kisses against the stubble, tickling Harry into a higher level of slightly aggrieved wakefulness. “Your house, your Owl post. Go on then, let the poor thing in.” 

“Don’ wanna.” 

“Harry,” Draco urged. “Just do it. It’s freezing out, likely. Don’t be mean.” 

“Meh. Bah humbug!”

Grumbling darkly under his breath, Harry rolled out of bed, casting off Draco’s clingy fingers and the crumpled duvet as he went. He shuddered and gasped when his feet hit the icy wooden floorboards and recalled yet again he’d been meaning to buy himself a new carpet for it. Or Draco had, which was much the same thing. Sprinting over to the window, he cracked it open, just enough to accept the small but strangely puffy envelop the post owl legged at him and give the poor bird a treat. It flapped off, leaving a gust of icy, sparkly December air behind it. 

Harry made haste to crank closed the window and scuttled back across the bare floor, scrambling into bed as fast as he could manage. The envelop crinkled in his hand, wrinkling the address label. ‘Harry Potter,’ it read, once he’d got in and sat up enough to smooth it out. ‘Home Address, Please and Thank You’. 

“Whazzit?” Draco, frowning, sat up as well and peered over Harry’s shoulder, a pale forelock flopping over one suspicious grey eye. “Huh. That’s not handwriting I readily recognize. Do you know who it’s from, Harry?” 

“No idea,” Harry replied grimly, and fumbled both their wands off the bedside table. “Here, check it, will you? I will too, of course, but you were always better than me at detecting those subtle ones.” 

They both cast, and then cast again, perplexed at the results. 

It was extremely rare that Harry ever received any personal mail at Grimmauld, and nearly never that he was delivered anything he wasn’t full well aware was coming in advance. The post-Battle fans and clubs and celebrity attention-seekers, the gossip rag reporters and the paps had basically invaded every square inch of his privacy, to the point of rendering him--and Draco, too, by extension, and also due to his own peculiar notoriety--pretty much useless to the Auror Department, even after they’d passed their training regimen with flying colours. So Draco and Harry had devised various means of circumventing the seething masses of Harry Potter fans, and naturally enough George, Hermione and even their ex-fellow Aurors had helped them out. Shacklebolt, with clear regret, had reassigned the both of them to the newly vacated Head position of Magical Games and Sports. 

“I’m not reporting to Potter,” Malfoy had stated flatly, during that uncomfortable interview. “It’s not my bloody fault we can’t function as the team we were meant to, Minister, and we’re both just as brilliantly competent as the other. You cannot punish either of us for the existence of Potter’s mad fan club. Especially not me. I’ve been the poor sod to save his hide every single time we’ve been mobbed in the field on assignment.” 

“He’s right!” Harry had chimed in brightly, jumping in his chair just a little at Malfoy’s sharp elbow nudge. “Not his fault, not a bit of it. Wouldn’t be fair, Kingsley. Besides, he’s going to go back to hating me like anything if you make me the boss of him and I’d rather not, thanks. Been there, done that, not again, no.” He firmed his chin and gazed adamantly at his boss. “More than my life is worth, Kingsley.” 

“Yes, alright,” the Minister had sighed, peering down at a report from the Department of Blah-Blah-Blah-Risk Statistics and Other Highly Important Data. Or something like that, at least. All Harry knew was that Hermione had found her especial calling in the Ministry some years prior; that Advanced Arithmancy and a few Muggle uni courses had paid off in spades. “Says here Malfoy’s correct in that claim, anyway--well done, you, lad--and that we’ve the budget allowed to recompense you both equally well, now Narnion Smeeze-Smightley has confessed up to his crimes and been carted off to Azkaban. All the embezzled funds have been re-seized. Ms Granger’s recommending--ah, here it is.” He jabbed a finger at the last page of Hermione’s summary. “Right-oh. I’ll make you co-Heads; how’s that?” 

“It’ll do nicely,” Malfoy had smirked, rising and taking Harry along with him by dint of grasping his bicep and tugging. “We’ll be off then, Minister. Games and Sports is clearly crying out for some proper attention. Potter and I will have it bristle-trim in no time, I assure you.” 

Which circumstance, Harry was of the opinion, had likely led to him ending up in bed even more often than before with Malfoy. Draco, rather. Whom he rather enjoyed the company of and found extremely shaggable. 

Which had also led to an even greater control over Harry’s privacy and personal safety, as Malfoy (in the office) and Draco (in his house) had absofuckinglutely not a shred of patience left in his fit body for those who stupidly adulated Harry. Or those who might equally stupidly wish to off him, because there were those freaks out there as well. Those old Wizarding families were privy to any number of repelling and protection spells and Grimmauld Place, despite having its UnPlottable lifted, was promptly re-imbued with the lot of them, plus any number of improved ones, thanks to the swift actions of Harry’s lover/co-Head.  
  
“Clean as Molly’s kitchen floor, Draco,” Harry stated, having incanted all his usual precautionary spells and then watched as Draco cast a half dozen more. “There’s no sign of anything nasty here.” 

“It’s more nonsense, same as yesterday's. Bloody nothing wrong with it at all.” Draco sniffed in discontentment, turning the padded packet over in his hands to peer at it. Harry wondered if he was peeved about not being able to Incendio the thing; sometimes Draco seemed to really relish pulverizing any perceived threat to Harry's peace. “Right, then," Draco sighed, nudging the package over to Harry. "Perspectum only reveals it’s some sort of small cloth object, Harry, and almost entirely non-Magical. No Charms, no Curses, barely even the whiff of Wizarding laundry soap. Do you want to go ahead and open it up now? May as well.” 

“‘S’pose I will,” Harry sighed, getting it on with it. The discarded wrapping revealed something extraordinarily mundane for the season: one lonely, scarlet, hand-knitted woolen mitten, fitted on the dainty side, completely absent of decoration with the exception of a bit of dangled frayed string attached to it. “Right, that’s peculiar. No note with it, see? No note with yesterday's, either.” 

“No.” Sneering at the small mitten, Draco took it from Harry’s fingers and sniffed it again. He even touched it gingerly with the tip of his tongue, the same tongue he’d used so delightfully on Harry’s prick the evening prior. “Still nothing, not a ping. It’s harmless. Puzzling as fuck but harmless. A prank is all.” 

“Alright,” Harry said. “Enough.” He cast a clear containing Charm about the mitten and set it aside on his night stand, along with his wand. “That was an unnecessarily dramatic and strange thing to happen this early in the morning on a Saturday but I’m awake enough now, I guess," he said, turning back to his bed mate. "Tea, Draco?” 

“Please,” Draco smiled, and shifted about, also preparing to leave their bed. “It’s alright if it’s a bit early. I’m for a decently long shower and we do need to step it up at bit, Harry. We’re on schedule to meet your personal Weasley at Spensive Alley in an hour, remember? Breakfast and then the shops. He's been teasing me for help with his Twelve Days; you're along for moral support, love.”

“Oh, yes, that’s today, isn’t it, “ Harry replied, wincing again as his feet hit the frigid floor. He promptly withdrew them and snuggled his icy toes back under the nice warm duvet. “Bah, it's frigid! Spensive? That’s the street with all the terribly dear shops in it, right?” He looked over to Draco for confirmation, who nodded assent. “Ugh. He’ll be whinging the entire time we’re there, probably. Not that his stake in WWW doesn't pay oodles in dividends. But,” Harry added, face brightening as the thought struck him. “Perhaps we can find a damned carpet for this bloody floor while we’re helping Ron? And would you not call him ‘my personal Weasley’, Draco. You know his name. Use it, git.” 

Draco gave a crack of sharp laughter, pausing before the lav door, hand on the knob. “Of course I know his name, I just enjoy your face when I say it. And yes, you’re perfectly right. We should look about for something suitable. You know I’ve been meaning to for ages but haven’t had a moment to breathe, what with the Standards due. Oi, you--slugabed! Are you joining me or are you just planning on going jauntering about with your best mate reeking of sex and day-old perspiration?” 

Harry treated him a squinty-eyed long stare, one that clearly conveyed his disgust at the notion of parading down Spensive Alley smelling of old shag and further derided Draco's accusation as ridiculous, entirely, and clambered out of bed with teeth clenched for two reasons: temper and frozen toes. He brushed by his smirking lover through to the lav, deliberately bumping shoulders with a little more force than usual and immediately spelled the hot water to flowing. He and Draco had enlarged the entire master bathroom some months ago, once Draco started staying over at Harry’s more often, and now it sported a spiffing enhanced shower stall completely separate from the old original claw-footed tub, featuring six different adjustable nozzles and a Classical-style marble bench for sitting. Or 'other activities', as the case might be. Both of them were very fond of the 'other activities' actually, and indulging in a few led to peace being restored between them. 

Thus, shopping on Spensive went swimmingly, what with Draco patiently advising an anxious Ron to purchase a small but exquisitely wrought pair of golden turtle-dove earrings for his second Twelve Days gift to Hermione and Harry accidently alighting upon the perfect gift for Molly Weasley, who collected commemorative Muggle silver teaspoons as a hobby. 'Sunny Las Vegas' it was stamped, right above the enameled on mini roulette wheel. Harry crowed over it, Ron confessed a certain envy, Draco's lips twitched and they all had a celebratory pint or two down the Leaky. Then he and Draco had gone off to the posh interiors shop located on Curious after a late lunch and happened upon the perfect carpet for Harry’s bedroom. 

“Look,” Draco had pointed out, all wreathed with genuine smiles, “it’s got scads of birds on, Harry, all manner of them. Owls and hummingbirds and cuckoos, hidden in those twining vines there, round the edges. Should go nicely, I think, with the new hangings. Wizarding Aubusson, of course; a nice antique one, well cared for. Pays to invest in quality.” 

“Lovely, yes,” Harry had nodded and smiled along, agreeing, inwardly quite seriously thankful he’d the services of a terribly knowing tit to help bring his musty old house up to decent standard. He and Draco had made their purchase late in the day and carted the shrunken thing instantly home, rolling it out as soon as they got there and positioning it just so under Harry’s four poster. 

“Brilliant,” Harry remarked happily after he and Draco had finished fussing, looking about him. His bedroom had improved by leagues and miles since Draco and he had started shagging; he could only be sanguine about his secret hopes for refitting the rest of Grimmauld in like manner. “Perhaps new curtains in here next. These are a bit shabby.” 

“Yes, a bit,” Draco agreed. “All in good time.” He bent his sleek head and examined the carpet again, lips quirking into an intriguing half-smile, seemingly quite taken up by something about it. "Oh, there," he murmured, almost as if to himself. "I see them." 

“What is it?” Harry asked, coming over to stand with him and sliding a casual arm about his waist and leaning up against his tall form. “Wizarding Aubusson, you said?” He too peered at their new acquisition but saw nothing amiss, just a preponderance of beautifully subtle colours and a soothing design of flowers, vines and avians, Muggle and Magical. “What, you see something odd there?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” Draco chuckled softly and wrapped his arm round Harry’s shoulders, drawing him in for a quick embrace. “It’s just there’s doves in, just there, see? Turtle doves, and also a partridge, up in the corner. Very suitable, is all, given the festive season.” 

“Naturally it's suitable; you were involved, weren't you?” Harry drawled. “Not such a shocker, is it?" He sighed, an exagerrated huff, and flopped full-length onto his mattress, folding his arms across his chest and staring up at Draco with a hint of challenge in his smile. "I suppose you just can’t help always having perfect taste. Posh toff.” Harry grinned slyly up at Draco, waiting for the inevitable--which was Draco blinking blandly, then breaking into rueful laughter, followed by his promptly flinging himself atop Harry for a right proper snogging. It was rather distracting, so much so Harry nealy forgot about the seasonal birds in his new carpet and that he now owned one unmarked child's mitten, coloured holly-berry red.


	3. A Holly Sprig

_Day Three: I Gave My Love A Holly Sprig_

“Yes, Mum,” Draco was saying softly to the image of Narcissa’s head floating the floo when Harry entered the second-best drawing room with the tea tray. “Yes, yes, I promise I will. Next weekend, then. Yes, I’ll ask him, of course, but I can’t promise any--oh! Um, must sign off now, sorry, Mum! Harry’s brought the tea in.”

Harry caught the barest scrap of fond but truncated goodbyes and then Draco was twisting around to face him and rising gracefully up off the hearth rug. The Floo flames must have been burning hotter than usual because his normally pale face was flushed, particularly up along the line of his high cheekbones. Harry blinked at the sight of him, admiring the golden glint of reflected hearth light off that neatly trimmed swath of lint-white hair, and wondered fleetingly if he should ask if everything was alright. 

“Alright, Draco?” Fortunately, it wasn't exactly difficult, the asking, as Auror training had rather beaten all the lingering animosity right out of the two of them, replacing it with a firm and mutual warm regard. He’d been asking Draco sincere questions and receiving sincere replies for months and months and it felt brilliant--and ever so easy, not awkward at all. “You look bothered. Your mum okay?” 

“Yes, she’s fine,” Draco said, coming over to sit upon the divan with Harry. “Everything’s hunky-dory, no fear.” He flashed a brilliant smile at Harry, but the tense set of his mouth belied his claim. “Nothing the matter with her, just badgering me to come down to the Manor weekend next.” 

“Oh,” Harry said blankly. “Right. I guess I’ll be attending that exhibition match on my own, then? Oh--here.” 

He handed Draco his tea, and sent the dainty porcelain biscuit tray off the larger silver salver to hover by him, carefully keeping his face impassive. They had the match, which was scheduled for the Saturday, and then too, Harry had rather hoped Draco might come by Weasley’s for Sunday supper. But Malfoy was his own man, of course, and if he had other obligations, then that was that. Enough said. Harry was certainly not about to press him to abandon his promise to his mum, either. 

“Not that it’s a problem, of course,” he added hastily, when Draco took a too-fast sip of his tea and began coughing. His face, which had only just returned to normal, coloured up again. Harry set aside his own cup and thumped him on the back. He carried on chatting, determined to pass over whatever rough ground it was they stumbled into as lightly as possible. “I’ll just ask Ron to go along with me. You know how he loves that perk. Makes him so chuffed.” 

“Oh, ah,” Draco said, his voice cracking a bit from the remnants of his coughing fit. “Actually, I wanted to--oh? What’s this, Harry?” 

He pointed to a very small box set on the salver, just behind the cozied teapot. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine and there was an address label. 

“I don’t know?” Harry, perplexed, picked it up and examined it, but with especial care. Kreacher must have set it on the salver when he wasn’t looking; sometimes he did that with the rare personal correspondence Harry was Owled. “How odd. Same handwriting as before, Draco. Same way of addressing it to me, too.” 

Draco set his barely touched cup down and yanked his wand from his jersey sleeve. 

“Right,” he said in a business-like manner, already casting. “Let’s ensure it’s safe, shall we? Set it down, love.” 

Harry gingerly placed the small box upon the cushion between them and waited as patiently as he could. This one he'd leave up to Draco to handle; there were other things on his mind. He could hear the old house creaking about them as the December winds picked up and the faint spatter of sleet against the curtained windows. The fire was crackling merrily away, though, and the biscuits were fresh and still warm from the oven.

When he’d been to the kitchen to get the tea tray from Kreacher, the elderly elf had been distracted with his cooking up a grand Sunday evening meal. Roasted chicken and winter root veg, likely, from the savory scents drifting out the Aga, and then there'd been a lovely cream soup simmering on the back burner. Kreacher had been madly stirring up gravy and glazing the carrots and sprouts, bustling like a dervish, whirling. It would not, Harry decided, be a good idea for him to turn 'round and go back into the kitchen just to bother the old elf with pointed questions about whence his surprise gift had come. He rather didn’t want the gravy to curdle. It made his stomach growl to think of it. 

“All through,” Draco announced, breaking the calm quiet that fallen over Harry and jabbing at the box one last time with his wand point before laying it down on the cushion by the box. “And all clear. May as well open it up, Harry. Maybe there’ll be a note with it this time. It’s some sort of fruit, flower, plant or veg, but again--harmless.” 

Harry hummed and took up the parcel, undoing the paper and string. The box inside was equally plain--white pasteboard, no markings--and contained solely a sprig of holly, heavy with berries. Draco had been correct in his informed guess, as always. 

“Merlin, that's rustic enough, isn't it?” Draco chuckled dryly, budging over so he could peer at the sprig. It looked as though it had been torn off the tree, not neatly snipped. “Right, then. At least your secret admirer is keeping up with some of the traditions of the season. Not that it makes it any less bizarre, Harry. You are planning to?” He nodded meaningfully at the holly as Harry repacked it.

They exchanged speaking glances; old Auror habits died hard. 

“Yes,” Harry replied crisply, spelling the parcel safely contained into a Charmed bubble with flick of Draco's wand. They often borrowed; came of having been Auror partners, Harry believed. Amongst other reasons. “Most definitely.” 

Frowning thoughtfully, he did the same with the label, the discarded brown paper wrapping and the twine, and sent all pieces of what-would-become ‘Aurors evidence’ sailing out to the hallway catch-all table to be dealt with in the morning. 

"Good," Draco replied, sounding very firm about it, and took a sip of his reclaimed tea. 

“I’ll be seeing Ron tomorrow," Harry remembered to mention, taking up his own cuppa. "Tea-and-Twelve Days venting session, you know?" he shrugged. "I’ll ask him to look into it when I mention the spare exhibition match ticket. I’ll give him the other things that have have been Owled, too, Draco.” Harry rubbed his hair back out his eyes in frustration, heaving a sigh. “Pity I didn’t think to set a tracer on that first Post owl--or keep that wrapping. Something’s niggling away me about all that. But I don't know what, obviously.” 

“Obviously not. Still, all good. That means Granger will be fully briefed by lunchtime,” Draco smiled. “Between her, Ronald and the rest of the Aurors, I should hope this little mystery is solved by tomorrow latest.” 

“Bit creepy, isn’t it?” Harry replied, sniffing as he shoved his specs up his nose. The lovely smell of roasting fowl with all the trimmings was getting stronger and his stomach rumbled. “Brasses me right off, this sort of thing.”

“What, being courted by some stranger?” Draco raised his eyebrows. “It’s not as though this has never happened before, Harry. Remember the first Christmas, right after the war ended? You told me you had to retain a service to come and cart all the unwanted gifts away. Couldn't open the door, some days. Too many of them, piled too bloody high.” 

“Yes, well,” Harry flushed. “I wasn't boasting about it; it was just a bit much to stand for. The gifts were all donated to charities, in the end, so I suppose some good came out of it.” 

His stomach growled again, quite audibly, and Draco huffed, beetling his brows and eying Harry's middle warily. He gently nudged the floating biscuit tray in Harry’s direction. 

“Alright there, Potter? Have a biccy, do. Can’t have you expiring when it’s only an hour till supper, can we?” 

“Shut up!” Harry laughed and helped himself to several digestives. “It’s only it smells so good, the chicken or whatever it is that Kreacher’s making for us. It's funny; I don't recall him going out to the shops this week.” 

“Oh, that,” Draco nodded faintly and looked down at his tea cup. “That’s likely the Faverolles Kreacher’s cooking. Mum sent me up three from the farm, you see, Friday last, and I brought them over when I came. Didn’t want them wasting away in my coolbox at home. Stasis is brilliant but fresh is better.” 

“Faverolles?” Harry questioned indistinctly, round a mouthful of chocolate crumbs. “Mmph, what’re those? Sound like mushrooms.”

“Oh, you know, French hens,” Draco said airily, and immediately changed to the subject back to the spring of holly Harry had been sent, going on for several minutes about the amazing uses and history of the holly tree, with an extended sidebar into the wonders of its berries in potions and such. He even got into the Muggle side of it, something he did often, and completely without the old schoolboy derision and mockery.

“--and then the Christian sect Muggles decided some centuries ago that it should be called ‘Christ’s Thorn’, right? Some of them did, at least. Got all prickly about it, hah-hah. But really, it was the old Wizarding folk and the Druids who had it truly defined, at least Magically: it symbolizes protection and eternal life, Harry, and also protects against lightning strikes, so really a very useful gift on the part of your unknown admirer.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry nodded, feeling a bit glazed over by the informational deluge. “Lovely, that.” 

“Yes, of course it is lovely, Harry, but all these gifts, paltry as they are, they've all been strangely symbolic, don’t you agree? The contrast of Nature versus Man-made, for instance--” 

Draco went on speculating about that topic at length, not seeming to require any real replies, so all Harry had to do was grunt, hum, nod and smile encouragingly all throughout their tea. And then onto the delicious meal of the funny French chickens before being hustled promptly off to bed. There were times when Draco wanted to talk and Harry wished to be quiet, and also times when the reverse was true, and it was fine, either/or, Harry thought, and accepted Draco's mouth on him with gladness. The familiar voice was stoppered but the man was clearly still quite all there, totally sunk in the moment, and that was bloody copacetic as fuck with what Harry wanted and needed, this night in particular. 

"Must work off all that excess energy, Harry,” Draco had teased him, and somehow in all the contentment and then the nicely vigorous bout of shagging, Harry never did manage to ask his sometimes quite annoyingly cagey lover what he’d been intending to say before the little gift of mystery holly and the aromas of the Fava-What's-it supper had distracted them both so. 


	4. A Hot Cross Bun

_Day Four: I Gave My Love A Hot Cross Bun_

Ron had definitely been chuffed to be invited to the match in place of Malfoy. He informed his Games and Sport co-Head all was hunky-dory at tea break, after Malfoy had returned triumphant from his emergency meeting with the Major Bludger Importers Consortium. There'd been a kerfuffle over the Auror Department's seizure of a quite substantial illegally-Jinxed delivery meant for distribution to minors and amateur leagues. All due to their predecessor's being such a wanker and taking bribes, naturally. 

“Laid down the law with them, did you?” Harry teased, grinning. “I know you love it when they cower.” 

“Huh, rather,” Malfoy snorted, topping up Harry’s mug with the last of the pot. “They’re all about making a quick Sickle and not about the quality. You know as well as I do that sort of slipshod attitude leads to injuries in the matches, Potter. I’ve levied a suitably dear fine and officially delivered them that revised section of the Standards Safety Requirements, as we agreed, though. So that lot’s out of the way at least and cleared off our schedule.” 

“Oh, brilliant. Cheers!” Harry laughed and clinked his cup with Malfoy’s, much to Malfoy’s disconcertment. “Must say I'm pleased as punch. That’s one more follow up meeting we don’t have to try and wedge in before the New Year; well done, you. Quite marvellously efficient, you are. May I even say, dangerously so?” He may have leered a little; Malfoy was a sexy git when he was exacting justice.

“Well. I should hope so.” Malfoy frowned at his empty cup and set it down. "Speaking of?" He glanced up, fixing Harry with a deathly serious gaze, abruptly stilling the last of Harry’s merriment. “I dropped by the Mail Room earlier, as it was convenient on the way up. To inquire about the delivery you had, Friday last? The pine cone, it was.” 

“Yes?” Harry lifted a curious eyebrow. “Anything to be had from them? Details of any sort they noticed, maybe? Primpleton's a stickler; don't know about Maddie Goliffrey, though.” 

“None, sadly,” Malfoy replied. “It was a standard post owl for hire, same as delivered this for you, just today.” Reaching into his robe’s pocket he pulled out another bog standard box, smallish. “Here you are. You may open it. It’s already been scanned several times and thoroughly too. Comestibles, we believe. Nothing Dark, nothing poisonous either--and not even a molecule of a love potion.” 

“Ah, well. That’s good, I guess,” Harry allowed, and lifted the pasteboard lid to reveal a single solitary hot cross bun, carelessly iced but with a preponderance of glistening coal black currants strewn atop. “Right. It’s a bloody bun.” He prodded it with a careful finger. “And a stone cold one, to be sure. Not even a stasis warming charm on it, Malfoy. What the fuck?” 

“Yes, that’s pretty well exactly what we all thought, down there in the Mail Room, Potter. Whoever it may be sending these, they’re certainly not particularly sophisticated.” Malfoy seemed quite put out by it all, and Harry felt the same, honestly. "Just bloody persistent, it seems. I hate to see you fret, you know."

“Botheration.” With an irritated huff Harry bundled up the box of cold pastry into a containment spell and tagged it to be sent off to the Aurors department, to the attention of one Auror Weasley, First Class, as soon as they returned to the office from the Level Seven tea room. “So do I. Wouldn’t have minded a nice hot cross bun with my cuppa either, you know? I quite fancy those rum-soaked currant ones they do in some of the Muggle cafes.” 

“Oh?” Malfoy visibly perked up in his seat, clearly pleased to be shifting right off the topic of Harry’s mysterious gifter. “Well, there’s nothing saying you can’t have one, Potter. It’s been some time since we’ve had Muggle cuisine. Might I tempt you to another tea, say, a true high tea at Fortnum’s, perhaps a little later? As we been so efficient lately.” He ginned conspiratorially at Harry, tapping a forefinger on the Bludger Importers Consortium file, now prominently stamped ‘Completed’. “‘All work and no play’, don’t you know. Too sad.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Harry groaned, leaning his head into his hand and glumly regarding his nearly empty mug. “This may be a time of ‘happy, happy, joy, joy’ for everyone else, but we have so much work yet to do. I wish I could hex that blighter that came before us sometimes, something fierce.” 

“Yes, that,” Malfoy murmured, reaching into his robes pocket again as he grimaced his agreement. “Noted and seconded, Potty; he's a fucking villain to be sure. Then, before we return to our official capacity, here. It’s for your interview tomorrow with the _Prophet_.” He handed across to Harry another pasteboard box, labelled ‘Boodles’. “You’ve no decent neckties in your wardrobe, nor any acceptable accoutrements. I rather doubt you've ever been truly exposed to proper men's furnishing, either. As I had a moment to spare after ripping those Bludger Consortium gits new arseholes, I popped by Muggle London for you. Can’t have you looking like a common tinker, Potter. You are still, after all, our most revered celebrity, even above the divine Celestina. And much more handsome. It's a pity not to flaunt it, a bit.” 

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, tearing off the lid of this second 'gift' box of the day with shining eyes and an excited grin. "You shouldn't have!"

"Pfft, go on with you. There was a crying need; I only happened to notice it." 

"...Still..."

He adored presents, really, and felt a bit guilty sometimes about doing so. But Draco was always just so pragmatic and suave when he presented Harry with 'just a little something; found it laying about' that Harry had never felt ill-at-ease, not once. More like the eleven year old child he'd been, once upon a time, utterly delighted to discover his name on a whole pile of shiny wrapped presents set beneath the Gryffindor Giving Tree.

“This is splendid, Draco; thank you,” Harry murmured, stroking the silk with a fingertip and examining the box for the remainder of these mysterious 'men's furnishings' Draco--oops, _Malfoy_ \--spoke of. "Oh, there's more here, isn't there? You really, really shouldn't have, love. It's too much." 

“Shut up. It’s nothing much, Potter,” Malfoy shrugged, thinning his lips. “And it’s not ‘Draco’ at work, remember? I think we’ve both had more than enough unwanted attention to cope with already. Even the bloody Ministry break rooms have eyes and ears, as we know.” Rolling his eyes with derision at the occupied next table over and shoving his chair back with a haughty but muted scrape, he rose to his feet and set his jaw. Harry gaped up at him, caught short by Malfoy's brusqueness. “Right, I’m off again. I’ve the Quaffle people next. It's one thing after another, all day, I''m afraid. Catch you later, Potter.” 

“Right, yes--and thanks again, Malfoy!” Harry called after him, gaze returning to his gift. Malfoy meant him no harm; he was likely in a strop still over Bludgers. He was vaguely aware the table next door promptly followed Malfoy out, however.

The Boodles box contained a quite posh cravat in a lovely subdued red with a narrow grosgrain stripe. Not Gryffindor red, exactly, but similar. And tucked beneath that was a much smaller velvet case, inscribed with a calligraphy label so loopily ornate as to be unreadable. Harry opened it with care and was instantly enchanted, for inside were nestled a set of cufflinks, a tie bar and also a tie pin, all fashioned from white metal--some form of gold, naturally, knowing Malfoy--and gleaming with the facets of tiny rubies from their inset eyes. For they were shaped like tiny birds, all of them, portrayed in flight. Ravens, maybe? 

“How unusual,” Harry remarked aloud in the empty room, examining the set with some fascination. These were most definitely not Muggle! And they were very fine, indeed, and very small. Wizarding jewelry, especially for men, was usually quite loud and even obnoxious, at least in Harry’s opinion. Giant bejeweled stickpins and watch fobs and cloak brooches, all glittery and eye-catching. Collar studs the size of dinner plates! 

Now and again, however, Malfoy had taken it upon himself to ‘contribute to Harry’s appearance’, as he liked to term it, but it had never been anything as intimate as 'proper men's furnishings' before--and had certainly not included anything from a Muggle store. Nor anything remotely resembling jewelry. And these were no ordinary cufflinks and tie pin to go along with the silk neckwear. These screamed of 'bespoke', giving the lie to Malfoy's claim of making a purely whimsical purchase. 

“No. They’re blackbirds, aren’t they?” Harry asked softly of no one in particular, his smile softening. Oh, he was definitely excited still, because presents! But now it felt like a much deeper sense of pleasure, one that warmed his very core. "Oh, they are. Collies." 

Curiously, he poked at a miniature beak with a careful fingertip, admiring the details of the crafty wee creatures. Their mouths gaped open, as if to make a noise of cawing, and the brilliant blood red of their jeweled eyes caught the light in a dazzling manner. But they were also satisfyingly discreet, exactly what Harry liked, or at least what he liked seeing Draco wearing. If he'd ever felt obligated to wear jewelry at all for some function, he'd likely have chosen something exactly like what Draco had just gifted him. Maybe as lions instead, but these collies were terribly clever, all the same.

“Huh, I wonder if he’s trying to tell me something again,” Harry mused under his breath. “Bloody Slytherins and their motives, what. Probably wants me to prepare some sort of set speech before tomorrow’s interview, so I don’t trip up over the implementation procedure. Collies are for wisdom and wit, I think. Clever tongues, they have. Or maybe that’s just owls. Hmm, I’ll have to ask Hermione later.”

Sighing and smiling--because Malfoy could be simultaneously exasperatingly sharp _and_ thoughtful to a ‘T’, the bugger--Harry went and dumped their used cups in the sink, scooping up the little box containing the weird bun and dropping both that and his gift from Malfoy into his leather satchel. He’d be meeting up for drinks with Ron and Hermione later in the evening, so there was plenty of time to deliver the mystery bun to Ron for further examination. Before that, though, he’d an entire cross-section of regional Ethics and Fair Play Code to review and compare and a bloody long, bloody boring afternoon ahead of him, all by himself whilst sly Malfoy was doubtless out being wined and dined by the Quaffles people.


	5. An Apple

_Day Five: I Gave My Love An Apple_

“Oh, Merlin’s hairy arse,” Harry muttered darkly, clutching the stupid little packet the Mail Room Wizard had shoved toward him the moment he’d popped in on his way back from his interview. “I don’t need this shite, really I don’t!” 

Harry slammed into the Games office with a bang of the door and sent an all-encompassing glare ‘round the room, taking in the stacks of reference files he and Malfoy had hauled up from Archives and the too-numerous piles of official parchments and scrolls awaiting their personal attention before the start of the New Year. 

“Hullo, Potter,” Malfoy looked up from his overflowing desk, peering mildly at Harry over the rims of his reading glasses. “Whatever’s the matter with you?” 

“Rubbishing fans, don’t know when to stop, is what!” Harry stormed, casting his cloak aside with little care where it landed and dropping his satchel and the box from the Mail Room down on his desk. “Bloody the last fucking thing I needed today, another frigging ‘mystery gift’!” 

“Oh?” Malfoy looked genuinely concerned. “I thought Ronald was acting on the situation, Potter.”

“Well, he hasn’t yet, has he?” With a huff, he threw himself into his chair and glared at the box in particular. “I don’t have the time to deal with this, Malfoy. Not with the work we’ve left to do! Ron’s got bloody nowhere at all on tracking down the source of these--and now here’s another bloody one, here to fuck up my day, as if it’s not been fucked up already by stupid Skeeter!” 

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy murmured, setting down his work and getting up. He crossed the short distance between their desks and came to stand behind Harry’s chair, laying his long capable fingers on Harry’s tense shoulders and giving them a conciliatory little squeeze-and-rub. “That’s too bad. I take it Skeeter was her usual self? You sound miffed at the whole world, Harry.”

“I am,” Harry admitted, closing his eyes and leaning back into the impromptu massage Malfoy had started. “Mmm, that’s lovely, Draco. Don’t ever stop.” 

Malfoy laughed but kept it up. “So, what exactly happened?” 

“Skeeter wanted the ‘juicy details’ of my personal life, as usual, and would barely even give me a chance to discuss the Standards work we’ve been doing,” Harry sighed, “and then that blighter Wulfric from the Mail Room handed me a ration of shite about constantly receiving ‘personal Owls’ at work, the sniveling little wanker, when it’s not as though I ever asked to be sent any of these horrible things and he's only a bloody intern at best! Plus Ron’s a mess over the Twelve Days thing---spent half of last night's outing rolling his eyes at me over Hermione’s head and speaking in cryptics about what next to give her. I’m about fed up, I guess.” 

“Poor Potty,” Malfoy murmured softly, dropping a quick buss on Harry’s ruffled locks. “That's too bad. You should probably arrange a nice weekend away to make up for it. Which reminds me.” 

He stopped his lovely massage of Harry’s shoulders and went off to his desk again, seating himself with a flourish and giving his glasses a quick polish with his silk pocket square. Harry looked after him enquiringly, all his anger with Skeeter displaced by the vague amusement to be gained from the silent show of one Draco Malfoy, clearly working himself up to the point of saying something personal to Harry within the confines of the Ministry. 

“Right, yes. Mum’s been after me to have you down to the Manor for a weekend.” Malfoy instantly glanced elsewhere, becoming seemingly intently focussed on the serried rows of packed book shelves, stuffed to the gills with all the older _Quidditch Standards of Play_ versions their cramped office could possibly contain without bursting. “She was wondering-- _I_ was wondering, rather, to be clear--if you might pop down Saturday evening, after the exhibition match? Stay the night over.” 

“Oh,” Harry said, after a moment, voice utterly neutral. He’d not been to the Manor since the Snatchers had captured them; he wasn’t at all certain what Malfoy meant by it, inviting him now. He’d never done so before. He’d a flat of his own in Town and now and again he and Harry would end up there but not on a particularly regular basis. They both much preferred Grimmauld Place. “Um. I have Weasley Sunday supper.” The words burst out of his mouth in a rush. “Would--would you be willing to come with me to that, if I come with you to the Manor?” 

He set his eyes firmly on the carelessly discarded gift on his desk, as if it had suddenly consumed all his interest and the little matter of this out-of-the-blue invite wasn't nearly as important. This was uncharted territory they were galloping headlong into, he and Draco, and Harry was damned sure it wouldn’t be _his_ bloody fault if they foundered. Merlin knew he didn’t ever want it to be his fault at all! It was all too lovely between them to let go, not now. P’raps not ever, but that was a prospect Harry’s mind always veered from. He daren’t jinx it. Best not to go there, much, not even in speculation.

“I--I-- _Yes_.” Malfoy’s voice came faltering at first but then steadied, smoothing into his usual calm tone. Harry could feel Malfoy's gaze burning into him. “If the Weasley’s don’t mind, naturally.” 

Harry risked a peep out of the corner of his eye. Malfoy was flushed a very faint rosy shade, high up on his cheekbones, as he tended to do when excited or nervous, and then often in bed, of course. He stared at Harry searchingly, scanning, his grey eyes clear and intense, his capable hands wrapped white-knuckled about a stray 1970’s era Quodpot Play book. 

"Er...would they, Harry?"

“No!" Harry leaped to deny that idea, slamming the flat of his palm down on his desk for emphasis and nearly squashing the Owl Post packet in passing. "Absolutely not; last thing they'd ever, ever do, believe me! Yes, alright, but this is brilliant, Draco! Molly's been after me for ages--er, I’ll just floo them later, make certain, alright? Now--about this thing here? This latest gift?” Harry hastily grabbed at the package and held it high, giving it a shake to make sure he'd Malfoy's full attention. It would, Harry was also damned sure, be best to switch subjects and quickly. They were at the Ministry, after all, and the understanding had always been no personal business during working hours. “Wulfric said it’s clean enough. Shall I open it?” 

“Yes, do.” Malfoy rose to his feet yet again and came over to Harry’s desk, standing by with wand at the ready. “I must say I agree with you, Potter. This is a great botheration. Stupidly distracting when we’ve work to do--not to mention ruining the season, just a bit. Go ahead, then. Open away.”

Harry, relieved that the topic of their startling different new weekend plans was apparently mutually agreed to be tabled and ignored for the moment, did so. And the brown paper revealed naught but a simple ripe golden-red apple, burnished by polishing but again not accompanied by any explanatory note. 

“Okaaay,” he breathed out, passing his wand over it for the usual containment spell. “Fruit.” He’d never been less tempted in his life. “That was anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

“Very much so,” Malfoy agreed dryly. “Mundane at best. No imagination.” 

He plopped down a sheaf of papers he’d been holding in his other hand, shoving the supposedly innocuous fruit to the side. 

“Moving on, alright. This is Barratt’s study for the increase in Snitch speeds and how it might negatively or positively influence Seeker play in the future. We’ve wind speeds and weather to account for, as well as professional league versus school and amatuer matches. I’d rather not split the Standards between them; you know how McGonigall is, and it’s not fair to the younger players to baby them so. Care to take a look-see? We’ll need to discuss it, I know. Sooner rather than later.” 

“Of course!” Harry took up the report gratefully. “Be happy to.” 

“Alright,” Malfoy nodded, giving Harry a quick approving pat on the shoulder. “You could come to mine tonight, actually. Talk it over with a decent bottle of wine between us. That data is as dry as the dust in Merlin’s tomb.” 

“Sure, sure,” Harry agreed, blinking. Another first, for they had always kept their private assignations to the weekends. Well, mostly. He blushed, ducking his chin and hoping Malfoy wouldn’t notice the heat suffusing him or how he squirmed a little in his seat. “I’ll come by ‘round eight o’clock?” 

“Do.” Malfoy swept over to the door. “I’m popping down to the canteen. Bring you a cuppa?” 

“Please,” Harry said, and buried his head in Barrett. Stats and data range recordings of the behaviour of Snitches was exactly what was needed to calm down his silly prick. Malfoy had a very comfy settee in his drawing room and invariably it got put to a far more intimate use than merely sitting! 

Draco welcomed him that evening with a teasing grin and a cheeky pinch to Harry’s bottom, ushering him straight into the drawing room, where a gorgeous fire was burning in the hearth. A bottle of wine was set out with stemware and a platter of various nibbles. Harry, who’d bolted down a cold leftover chicken sandwich hours before, fell to happily, grazing his way to satiation as they discussed Barratt’s report and the conflicting data his rival Nigel Crumbpette had turned over to Ministry in infuriating close detail. References were dragged out and pored over, parchments, antique scrolls and Quik-notes ended scattered over the surface of Draco's sleek coffee table and his even sleeker designer sofa. Finally, late in the evening, they came to the agreement that Barratt was most likely the more trustworthy source but that Crumbpette should be Owled and requested to come by the Games office for a meeting--but not, by Merlin's beard, till after the New Year. 

“Oh, right. I almost forgot, Harry. Meant to give you these, as you might be wanting them on the weekend.” Draco dug into the pocket of his tight black Muggle denims and pulled out a key fob, which he promptly pressed into Harry’s free hand. “Since I don’t what time the exhibition match will end and all. Easier if you have a Master's Key to the Manor, all ‘round.” 

“...Ah?” Harry’s eyes widened as he stared at the ornate metal. It was a terribly old-fashioned item, nearly as long as his own hand, as measured from wrist to fingertips, and it was attached to a beautifully wrought fob chain, comprised of five interlocking golden links. “Thanks? Are you sure, though, Draco? I don’t want to upset your mum or anything, barging in. Figured I’d floo first, let you know.” 

“Oh, definitely.” Draco waved Harry’s uncertainty off as if it were nothing. “She’s all for you visiting. Been hounding me for months and months now to have you down for any occasion, any at all. I just thought this weekend might be better for you, given how it’s been so demanding at the office. Weather’s been lovely in Wiltshire recently; we might even be able to have a practice run with those broom models they’ve delivered us from Universal for testing. What do you say? A little Sunday morning exercise before Mrs Weasley feeds us into a stupor?”

Harry giggled at the idea of a be-aproned Molly shovelling food into Draco’s open but protesting mouth. Somehow it made the idea of him spending a rather more formal evening and night before at the Manor more palatable. And if Narcissa had truly been clamouring to see him, who was he to decline? Wouldn’t be right, offending Draco’s mum. She’d saved him, after all. 

“Sounds super,” he replied, tucking the key fob away into his own denims. It adjusted itself magically, shrinking to fit. “I feel a bit of fraud, actually, writing up Quidditch play standards when it’s been so long since I’ve been on a broom myself.” 

“Hmm, same,” Draco agreed, and casually wrapped his arm about Harry’s shoulders, tugging him nearer as he peremptorily heaved the heaps of books and reports straight off the sofa with his other hand. Barratt and Crumbpette happen to land with their respective pages very much co-mingled, a circumstance that would've greatly shocked the two elderly gentleWizards had they but known. “Come here, you. Closer, that's it, Harry. As to exercise, perhaps we should engage in some right now?” He winked lasciviously at Harry's sudden intake of breath. “You’ll need to stay fit to keep up with me Sunday. Not about to give you a pass just because I fancy your arse, love.” 

"Urgh!" Harry gurgled, choking on his too-hasty gulp of wine, though he wasn't sure if it was outrage or hilarity. He didn't have a chance to counter, as Draco had already divested him of his tipping stemware and angled his jaw down with intent. He fastened that clever mouth of his straight over Harry's, licking at Harry's wet lips till they parted willingly and blithely helping himself to a taste of the Merlot. Harry didn't mind in the least. After the rough day he'd had, it was bloody brilliant to be thinking about his own cock instead of Barratt's bloody Snitches. 

It certainly seemed rather likely that Draco’s Swedish settee would be mis-used yet again. 


	6. A Wreath of Ivy

_Day Six: I Gave My Love A Wreath of Ivy_

“I really don’t know what to do, mate!” Ron moaned, dropping his head in hands and shaking it dramatically. He looked up again, fixing Harry with an accusing stare from bright blue eyes, as if it were somehow Harry’s fault he was brought to a standstill by what was apparently a centuries old tradition of Wizarding courting. “It’s six geese laying next and what the fuck's even romantic about six geese laying? Eggs, Harry! What should I even _do_ , make her an omelette? Take her to visit a farm yard?” 

“Well, um.” Harry blinked, blessing Malfoy’s good sense at whipping out the door and down to Archives the moment Ron had come barging through to their office, his face wreathed with scowls. “What did you do yesterday, Ron? Maybe more of the same or--or something like?” He shrugged helplessly. Honestly, he’d not a clue about courting, and especially not traditional Wizarding courting. Malfoy had told him a little about it recently, in bits and pieces, but it was still mostly a happy mystery to Harry. 

“Yesterday was easy; I gave her a bracelet,” Ron replied miserably, his normally square broad shoulders sunken in their brilliant Auror scarlet. “Mum said she’d like it as much as the earrings Malfoy said to give and she did. But now there’s today, and it’s fucking bloody geese, Harry, and then after that bloody swans and lords and ladies! I’m stumped, I tell you!” 

“But I’m hardly the person you should be asking, Ron,” Harry protested, leaning back in his chair and laying down the diagramme for the new Universal Broom company model he’d been scanning. “What do I know? I was raised Muggle.” 

“The person I should really be asking,” Ron intoned direly, “is Hermione herself, but she’ll murder me in cold blood if I do, and you know it. Goes against tradition and all that nonsense. Mum’s already having a cow I asked advice of Malfoy. Says I should be coming up with creative ideas all on my own. It’s cheating, otherwise.” He waggled his ginger eyebrows. 

“Right, right, cheating,” Harry nodded, lifting his eyebrow in the arch way Malfoy did when faced with utter bosh. “And naturally that made you come to me for help? ‘Cause asking me is the same as being ‘all on your own’, mate? By the way, whatever happened to your investigation into all those odd gifts I’ve been sent? Am I ‘all on my own’ on that, just as you’re supposed to be?” 

“Oh, bloody Merlin, Harry,” Ron huffed, throwing up his hands. “I forgot, alright? It’s been too much, recently, what with the regular cases and then shopping for Hermione’s Twelve Days gifts and then also sorting out the perfect way to propose to her. You know I didn’t mean it, though. The forgetting. Right? You do, Harry?” 

Harry gave his mate the benefit of a long, level stare and then burst out laughing, reaching forward to point a finger at his red face. 

“You’re an idiot, you are!” he chuckled. Watching Ron’s freckles turn pale against the pink was always amusing. “Of course I know! It’s all you talk about these days--courting Hermione and those bloody Twelve Days gifts you’ve got to find. I’m just sorry it’s so difficult, Ron. I feel for you, really I do.” 

“It is, and you probably don’t, not really,” Ron pouted, and then perked up. “Oi! That omelette idea’s not a bad one! There’s that cafe that Hermone loves, and they serve breakfast all the day long and nights too. I bet I could persuade them to cook up some goose eggs for us.” 

“Oh, that’s a good one, Ron. Very creative and all, your mum would be proud,” Harry chuckled. “Good luck with it then. Might want to give her something else too, just in case. Flowers, maybe. Whatever she’d like. Something you've made, maybe?” 

“Brilliant idea, Harry!” Ron leapt up, catching sight of the face of the old tall case clock that had come with the office furnishings. “Shite, it’s nearly half past! I’m supposed to be in a briefing right now; gotta dash, mate. Catch up with you soon, alright?” 

“Alright, Ron,” Harry smiled fondly at the empty space his friend left behind. “Whatever you say, mate.” 

After a few minutes, which Harry spent profitably examining the inner workings of the Universal broom model--same as the ones he and Malfoy would be using on the weekend--Malfoy poked his head about the door and cautiously made his way into their office. 

“It’s safe, no fear,” Harry remarked, not really looking up as Malfoy set down a mug of builder’s on his desk. “He's in a briefing, likely be in one all day. Ta, as always, Malfoy.” 

“Pleasure, as always,” Malfoy replied, and stuck down a long thin box right atop Harry’s diagramme. It was open, wrapping previously discarded somewhere. “Here. Have yourself some ivy, Potter. Courtesy your unknown admirer.” 

“Merlin, again?” Harry groaned, and irritably tipped the box of clingy ivy tendrils off his schemata. “I was hoping--” 

“No such luck, sorry, and our man Wulfric is becoming quite tetchy about it all, I must say. He and Wanda Do-Lightly in Central Delivery are considering sending a memo of complaint to the Minister.” 

“What, really?” Harry howled, flinging himself back and away from the offensive ivy. “Like I have anything to do with this disaster!” 

“Yes, I know,” Malfoy replied imperturbably, seating himself at his own desk. It was annoyingly free of the detritus that covered Harry’s. Harry scowled. Malfoy was bloody lucky; no one was sending him unwanted presents and creating a fuss! “Which is exactly why I made it a point to drop by Shacklebolt’s office this morning and preemptively bribe him with his favourite Muggle chocs. You may thank me any time now, Potter.” 

“You did what now?” Harry demanded, sitting bolt upright. “Kingsley has favourite Muggle chocs? Since when? And how do you even know that?” 

“I have my ways,” Malfoy smirked. “And yes. Cadbury Creme Eggs. Here, catch, will you? I happen to have picked up a few extra.” 

Quick as lightning, Malfoy fired off a volley of the little foil wrapped Cadbury sweets, forcing Harry to scramble. He caught them all--six, there were--but barely, being forced to abandon his mug and learn how to juggle on the fly. 

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” he sighed, calming down sufficient to unwrap a choc and sniff it. It brought him back to the bad old days, when Dudders would be given loads and loads of sweets, all sorts, and Harry never got any. “Hmm, peppermint flavoured? What, is that your Wizarding touch there? Normally they're just plain vanilla. And ta for averting the Mail Room crisis.” 

“T’is the season, Potter,” Malfoy grinned. “Cheery and bright, goodwill to all men, all that shite. Now, eat those up because I doubt if we’ll have time for a proper lunch today. We’ve preliminary budget review this afternoon scheduled this afternoon and that’s always enough to churn my stomach every time.”  



	7. A Pomegranate

_Day Seven: I Gave My Love A Pomegranate_

“Potter! Potter, up! I need you in flying kit this instant!” 

Malfoy was a picture, Wednesday morning. He came bursting through the Games office door with high colour and wispy tendrils of white-blond hair escaping from under his fur rimmed hat, clutching two brand new Ellerby & Spudmore models in his hands and shouting. 

“What, now?” Harry jumped up, scattering his budget review notes all across his desk and the surrounding carpet. He nearly knocked his tea over; it was a close call. “You want me to what?” 

“Hah!” Malfoy panted, his cheeks red as apples. "Fly, Potter! Remember that, Mister Youngest Seeker?" He rolled his eyes at Harry and gestured with the broomsticks. “Bloody Merlin, Potty, would you just do as I asked? We’ve a bare hour’s window to get these tested and I require your cooperation. Spudmore himself nearly Hexed me in the Atrium this morning when I let slip we’d not even once tried out these models. He's _very_ invested, apparently, and he knows my mother socially. Now, could you please--just!?” 

“Right, right. On it.” Harry heaved a long-suffering sigh and yanked his all-purpose drawer open. He kept a flying outfit there for emergencies, all nicely Shrunken. “Give me a half a sec, will you?”

"Yes, but no more than half," Malfoy allowed, shouldering the broomsticks and propping himself up against the wall to wait. 

"Bugger off." 

Harry made quick work shucking his usual robes, trousers and jersey and replacing them with his Quidditch leathers, peripherally aware of Malfoy’s admiring gaze. His official Games Office kit had been supplied at Ministry expense by Shacklebolt--possibly out of a sense of lingering guilt for landing him and Malfoy in the hellscape that was Games, post-convicted ex-Head KnowNothing Sneeze-Frightfully's reign--and it was rather natty. Top of the line dragonhide all the way and the full array of comfort charms. But their suits were not only expensive, they were also dead sexy. The britches were far more flattering to his arse than his old Hogwarts ones had been and the greaves, lacings and leg protectors were a brilliant emerald and contrasted beautifully with the fine grained black leather. The scattered accents of fringe and twisted braiding made it all the more attractive and Harry generally felt like a million Galleons when he wore it. Which was all too seldom these days, given that he and Malfoy spent so much of their time trapped in paperwork.

"Almost ready."

He bent to cast the spell to lace up his boots whilst drawing on his flying gloves, and caught Malfoy’s hungry eye with a knowing grin. There was that, too: the added bonus of knowing for fact his official flying gear made Malfoy hot. 

“Like what you see, then?” Harry teased, shamelessly posturing against the edge of his desk, his thighs spread wide enough to stretch the thin sheath of leather. “Oh, I see you do.” 

Malfoy simply swallowed, nodding. Wordlessly, he thrust out a broomstick when Harry left his desk and came up to him. Harry grinned all the wider, enjoying Malfoy’s discomfit. Enjoying the up-close view he had of Malfoy's swelling bits as well, honestly, because the leather was so fine it was practically skin-tight. 

“Makes it up, a bit,” he murmured quietly as he slid past him, angling his head so he could nip at that flexing jaw line in passing. “Dragging me out in the cold on a whim.” 

“H-Hardly a whim, Potter,” Malfoy replied stiffly, as stiff as his prick was in his gear. "This is business, strictly business." He slid away, all his flush receding to the call of business. “Ahem. More we ought to have to done the tests on these weeks ago and somehow didn’t and now Spudmore’s rather rightfully brassed off with us. Plus he knows my mother. If you’re finally ready now?” 

Indeed, Malfoy was already mostly out the office door, giving Harry a chilly shoulder in silent reprimand, but Harry stayed smiling all the same as he followed. It wasn’t often Malfoy lost his cool in any sort of pubic space; it was a nice reminder of all the fire that burnt so fiercely under that icy, smooth exterior. That they’d agreed not to shag at work somehow made it all the sweeter. 

“Yes, alright, I admit we’re at fault,” Harry said, falling into step with his co-Head, and sadly setting aside his thoughts of forbidden fruit. “Now, where is it we’re going to test these? London’s not exactly abounding with Muggle-free spaces at the moment and there’s still the Statute. It’ll be far worse than merely Spudmore if they have to call in the Obliviators after us.” 

Malfoy cleared his throat again, politely gesturing Harry into the lift. “Yes, I already thought of that. Serpentine, I think. Hyde Park. Should be mostly deserted right now and we can simply use a Disillusionment Charm when we arrive.” 

They moved through the crowded Ministry Atrium at speed and with purpose, Harry oblivious to the few catcalls and whistles he garnered from some of the less polite Wizarding folk as they went. Malfoy thinned his lips and cast disapproving glares over his shoulder at the offenders but he soon relaxed when they gained the safety of the sidewalk. 

“Alright, we’ll Apparate there, Potter. Faster than the Tube and we’ve really not much time.” 

“Yes, okay,” Harry nodded, taking up the arm Malfoy offered and shouldering his broom. 

Malfoy SideAlonged them both and brought them to a discreet location by the Dell. Harry unlatched himself from Malfoy and checked over his gear to make sure was in order. It was a chill, damp, grey morning and the area was mostly deserted, just as Malfoy had said. He looked about them curiously; he’d not been to Hyde often and never down by the boating lake. 

“We should fly over the water,” Malfoy directed, tapping first Harry and then himself on the head with his wand before holstering it. “Here.” 

The sensation of raw egg cascading down his forehead sufficiently distracted Harry from his fascination with watching his fingers disappear and the racing broom right along with them. He looked up at Malfoy, who was also nearly invisible. 

“It’s dreary enough today, I doubt the Muggles will even look up. And look--no boaters,” he pointed out, casting a leg over his broom, “not even tourists.” 

“Ready when you are,” Harry replied promptly, all at once quite excited by the thought of an impromptu flying session. It had been ages, just as he’d remarked to Draco lately, and he really missed the feel of the broom handle between his legs and the wonder of traversing the breezes and thermals. “Up!” 

“Already ahead of you, Potty,” Malfoy called out, and indeed, he was, the contrary wanker. He sped off, not waiting on Harry, following a deftly managed zig-zag course over the dull steely waters of the lake. Harry followed swiftly, mildly regretting the absence of a Snitch.

“Oi, these aren’t half bad,” he shouted out to Malfoy, as they began a criss-cross pattern of flying, taking advantage of the broom’s braking and accelerating Charms. “Nice and spritely, really.” 

“I should hope so,” Malfoy answered, swooping in close enough to Harry to jostle him. “The Governor’s Board of Hogwarts is considering them as replacements for the old Cleansweeps. The children will like it they actually show some life to them, don’t you think?” 

“Yes, absobloodylutely they will!” Harry chortled, veering down sharply, almost to skim the calm surface of the waters. “Oh, fuck!” he shouted out, when a swan, appearing out of seemingly nowhere, extended up its long neck to snap its beak at him. Several more of the bloody birds instantly followed suit, causing Harry to immediately bank his stall and seek more altitude. “Merlin, Malfoy, why didn’t you warn me about the blasted swans?” 

“Oh, yes. Those.” Malfoy appeared at Harry’s side as if by magic, his hair under his cap dampened and sticking to his sharp face. He seemed very amused as he touched his boot heels down into the water, sending up a fine spray that caught Harry’s lower legs. “They’re a feature, I’m afraid. Shall we count them, for lack of anything else to do except fly in circles, Potty?” 

“Huh? There’s seven, if you must know,” Harry growled, irritated, and took one hand off his broom to motion for a drying Charm. “You are the oddest chap. Completely mental.” But Malfoy forestalled him, casting the Charm and then peeling off like a madman, laughing as he went and calling out a very unrepentant ‘Sorry, Potty!’ over his shoulder. Harry stared after him, and sped up, determined not to be outflown by a mad wanker with a fixation on waterfowl.

“Well, I shall say they pass muster,” Harry allowed, after another quarter hour or so of trying out the broom’s paces. “Certainly good enough for Hogwarts and Beaubattons, likely, though those Durmstrang kids will always want something with more ‘oomph’ to it. What say you, Malfoy?” 

Malfoy circled lazily down to Harry’s level and looked about them. The Park was starting to fill with more morning visitors and there were finally some signs that the boats-for-hire might be put to use. It was time to call it quits, Harry thought to himself, and set off toward the far shore at a sedate pace, Malfoy just behind him.

“I say we’ve fulfilled all our obligations of the day, Potter,” he announced, very much lord-of-the-Manor, when they drew level before landing, “and we deserve a lovely meal out on the Ministry’s expense. Shall we drop by the office and ditch these first?” 

They dismounted, quick to Shrink their brooms and cast two more Disallusionment spells upon one another, and then casually slid into the growing stream of strollers and joggers that had populated the Serpentine Walk whilst they were flying. Harry considered the veritable mountain of work awaiting them back at the office and then considered the fact he’d not had a decent meal since Sunday last, when Malfoy had brought over those delicious French chickens. 

“Alright,” he said finally, peeping over at his co-worker. Who seemed absolutely chuffed with himself for no reason. Harry frowned at him. “If you think we can spare the time.”

“Oh, I do.” Malfoy reached out a hand and took Harry by the elbow, drawing them both out the flow of foot traffic. “Harry. Strikes me--” he said, bending down his sleek head so as to kiss Harry just to the side of his mouth--”we’re closer to my flat than we are to the Ministry and I could fancy a shower. How about you?” His lips continued their journey as he spoke, deep and soft, and Harry shuddered under the heat. “Could do a take away instead, have ourselves a little afternoon delight, if it pleases?” 

“Oh, ahhh…” Harry groaned, immensely grateful they weren’t visible to the Muggles. He mentally consigned their work to perdition. Draco looked just as fit as he did in Quidditch leathers, if not more so--that arse! “Um, yes?” 

“Brilliant,” Draco hissed in satisfaction, one palm coming down flat and hot across the span of tight leather barely containing Harry’s very interested cock, the other wrapping ‘round Harry’s waist with authority. “Hold tight, then,” he said softly, giving Harry's bits a gentle squeeze. Harry inhaled sharply, every nerve instantly on fire with heady anticipation.

It _was_ 'delightful': fast and frantic, with them ripping each other’s garments off before they even made Draco’s bedroom, and the moments after were just as good, spent in the bath, washing the spent fluids and residual stickiness off each other before they simply succumbed and did it again. They did make it back to their office, however. Draco insisted, as he swore he’d be Hexed if the broom supplier didn’t get his test write-up by the next morning, priority Owl--and Harry once again dove into his budget sheets and whatnot. Albeit with a grin on his face that wouldn't quit, forsooth. 

Not even the discovery of a plain paper wrapped box containing a single pomegranate on his hall table back at Grimmauld could quite erase it. Harry smiled over the thing, took a very sharp gander at the handwriting on the label and stuck his head in the floo to make a quick firecall to his mate Ron. 

There were yet a few things puzzling him, and he took to his bed happily after consuming the last of the chicken sandwiches Kreacher had left out for him in the kitchen. He needed to sleep, as often he did his best thinking when bashing around in his unfettered subconscious. 


	8. A Biscuit (Ginger)

_Day Eight: I Gave My Love A Biscuit (Ginger)_

“Good morning, Potter,” Malfoy wished Harry, pleasantly enough even though Harry was quite late arriving. “What’s that you have there?” he asked, when Harry slapped an envelop down atop the heap of international correspondence his co-Head was sorting through. 

“Tickets to the ballet,” Harry said succinctly, and placed the coffee he’d procured for his co-worker carefully to the side of the teetering pile. “The Minister said to give them to you? 'For services', he said, and he also said you would know why and that he might as well give them _me_ because you’d likely only invite me anyway.” 

He retreated to his own desk, whipping off his cloak and peeling back the protective tab on his cup lid as he went. Leaving the implied question hanging heavily, rather. Seated at last and with his favourite quill in hand, he turned to look Malfoy's direction again, raising his eyebrows expectantly. 

“Ah.” Malfoy had meanwhile opened the envelop and was examining the contents. “Yes, alright. I see," he nodded. "This is quite convenient, actually.” The silver rims of his reading specs caught the light as he looked full on at Harry, expression carefully bland. “And would you care to go along, Potter? It’s for tonight, I’m afraid. Short notice.” 

“Huh,” Harry shrugged, not quite knowing what to make of it all, as Kingsley had been very adamant that _Harry_ take the tickets, even though they would all be in the same meeting later. “Leave me in the dark as to these ‘services’, why don’t you? Fine, then; be that way. What time and where? Is it Muggle?” 

“No, no,” Malfoy said, shaking his head quickly. “Not this time.” 

Often the Minister received complimentary tickets and invitations from the various Muggle royal or political connections and just as often he shared them about. One could look upon it as either an honour or a bother, Harry supposed, but he and Malfoy had attended several Muggle performances at the Royal Albert and had both been quite pleased with their experiences. Harry wasn’t averse to an evening out, either, especially if it meant he got to enjoy the sight of Malfoy in full formal dress. 

“It’s Wizarding,” Malfoy continued, lips twitching slightly. “Some avant-garde holiday show, I believe. Based on the Saturnalia, so there’s probably going to be an artistic showing of the dancer’s bits. You game? It’s at eight, and it’s some ways away. We’d need to go earlier.” 

“Yes, alright,” Harry smiled his acceptance, and basked a bit when Malfoy relaxed and grinned right back at him, grey eyes gone all warm and fond. They’d not talked about it at all but there’d been a lot of ‘firsts’ the past few days, and the boundaries they’d mutually agreed upon ages ago had begun to blur in the most pleasant of ways. “I’ll be happy to.” 

“Brilliant,” Malfoy said, and tucked away the tickets in a pocket. He picked up his coffee and prised off the lid, blowing some of the steam away. “I’ll come and collect you around seven then; leave us time for drinks before the show.” 

Harry hummed and looked back down at the report he’d randomly yanked from one of the piles, preparing to settle into work. He very much liked the subtle change between him and Malfoy. They absolutely shagged still like men with purpose but there was growing tenderness there and it lit Harry up like fireworks. 

“Harry? Hey, mate?” Ron knocked up the open office door loudly and stuck his head in, jerking his chin at Harry. “Got a minute?” 

“Er, what? Sure,” Harry looked up, startled, and then recalled the reason why his friend would be visiting him on Level Seven this particular morning. “Coming.” 

He rose, glancing over at Malfoy. “Just be a moment, alright?” 

“No fear,” Malfoy said, and buried his nose in a ledger submitted by the Department of Extremely Useful Knowledge. “Carry on, the two of you. I know you like to have your morning gossip.” 

Ron laughed, and flipped Malfoy off goodnaturedly, then ushered Harry out the door. 

“Do you have them all, Ron?” Harry asked, taking up the pace Ron set down the corridor. “I wanted to look them over again before I Owled Andromeda.” 

“Yes, back in my office,” Ron nodded as they both boarded the lift. “Hermione thinks you have a valid theory there, by the way.”

“Good.” Harry smiled; always nice to have a little support from his mates. “So, how’s it going with the Twelve Days gifts, Ron? What are we on, now--cows, was it?” 

“Yes, bloody cows,” Ron said dolefully and led the way to his office in the Auror department when the lift spewed them out. “I tell you, this is nerve wracking, all of it. How am I supposed to introduce cows and milkmaids casually into the scene, right? Really, they should update this stupid ritual. Bad enough with the goose eggs yesterday.”

Harry smiled in sympathy, but his eyes were on the pasteboard carton on Ron’s desk that contained all the the many strange little ‘gifts’ he’d been sent, from pine cone to cold bun.

“That’s all of them?” he asked, sliding into Ron’s visitor’s chair and pulling the box toward him. “And they are all still clear of curses and hexes, mate? No residuals?” 

“Yes,” Ron nodded, slouching into his seat. “Completely, entirely harmless. Still no trace on the post owl origin, nor the wrapping, nor the handwriting. Not a single ping for any criminal or illicit activity, Harry. Which is why Hermione and I think you’re correct.” 

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, looking through the various things he’d been sent, “and feeling pretty much like an idiot, too. Not to mention guilty as fuck for neglecting him. I’m surprised Andromeda didn’t say anything.” 

Ron shrugged philosophically. “She knows you’ve been flat out, Harry. This is likely just her letting little Teddy have a bit of harmless fun, that’s all. I wouldn’t read anything into it.” He gave Harry a hard stare nonetheless. “Not that it wouldn’t hurt to send your thanks or something, either. Make the little chap happy.” 

“I’ll make sure to do that, Ron,” Harry smiled, “as soon as I get home tonight--oh, hold up! I’ve the ballet with Malfoy, I’d almost forgot already.” He shook his head, rueing the general lack of decent rest and healthy habits the holiday season always seemed to cause. “Brain like a sieve, mate.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Some holiday show, Malfoy said. Kingsley had the tickets and buttonholed me in the Atrium. Was very insistent I be the one giving him them,” Harry raised an eyebrow at Ron’s grimace, “as it would be me he’d invite anyway.” 

“Well, it’s true enough, Harry,” Ron nodded. “Not exactly earth-shattering at this point, the Minister expecting you two to be attached at the hip. Tell me, has he been giving you anything else for Twelve Days? Because you mentioned the chocs and all.”

Harry opened his mouth, blinked hard and shut it again. Ron seemed to take this as an agreement of sorts and nodded knowingly. 

“Reason why I was asking was to see whether he’d done anything about those cows and milking maids, is all,” Ron continued on blithley, as if the concept of Draco Malfoy giving Harry Potter Twelve Days gifts--fucking Wizarding courting gifts--was absofuckinglutely non-noteworthy except for a passing curiousity as to method. “I’m having to take Hermione out to a farm later, you see. Couldn’t think of much else she’s not expecting. Though I might have to break down and get George to give one of his Twelve Days of Wheezes thingies tomorrow. Those dancing whatnots and leaping lords will be the death of me, I can already tell.”

Harry blinked some more, rolling over in his head all the various implications and conclusions and sheer bloody obvious behaviour he had to go on--that Ron apparently had had no trouble at all discerning!--and kicking himself for not seeing it sooner. But...but Twelve Days Wheezes? What in Merlin’s name?

“Ron,” Harry leant forward and fixed his friend with a piercing stare. “George has a bloody shortcut for all this nonsense? In a box?” 

“Oh, yes,” Ron grinned. “Very popular they are too, with the younger crowd. That’s us, mate,” he added, flipping a casual thumb back and forth between them as he lounged back into his seat. “It’s got snow globes with little cow maids in them, and some sort of music box for the pipers and a paper panto set for the lords and ladies. Plus all the easy stuff, the birds and whatnot, though the rings aren’t real gold, naturally. It’s a real best seller, this time of year. Can’t keep them in stock.” 

“Isn’t that.” Harry paused, swallowing. ”A bit like, I don’t know, cheating?” 

He thought of all the subtle ways Draco had snuck in his Twelve Days gifts, never saying a word aloud, and felt his dander rising. Not that he was angry with Draco, not at all! No, that was alright, being courted. Harry quite liked the idea of being courted. It was that here was poor Draco--and poor Ron, too, Harry supposed--going out of their way to do it the old-fashioned way, the proper Wizarding way, and then there was George, making a quick Galleon on a DIY kit! 

“Huh.” Ron appeared to consider this accusation seriously, before finally shaking his head and frowning at Harry. “No, not really. I mean, no more than the Wizards and Witches who just pop by the jewelers or the florists or some such and buy all the same sort of thing to be delivered. Or, remember Nott and Parkinson last year? Made all the papers, Nott’s extravagances. Hired out any number of venues and must have spent a fortune on the actors alone. Bought out Eeylops domestic fowl section entirely in one day, I think. Now that was foolishness, Harry.”

“Oh, Merlin! Actors, Ron,” Harry exclaimed, realizing suddenly why Draco had been pleased to receive the tickets from Kingsley. “I bet it’s got milkmaids in it, the ballet tonight.” 

“Likely. Better the ballet than tracking cow muck about, Harry.” Ron grinned. “Though Hermione’s really pleased by me wanting to have more Muggle experiences, so there’s that. She’s always after me to have those.” 

“Yes, I know.” Harry suppressed a smile. Ron had always been sympathetic to the Muggles and Muggleborn--how could he be the child of Arthur Weasley and not?--but Hermione had been pushing for more understanding and appreciation from the old Pureblood families for years and Ron had rather fallen into the state of ‘willing example’. “Have you managed to actually surprise her yet?” 

“Doubt it very much,” Ron shrugged. “Knowing her, she’s had exactly what I’d be likely to do in mind for the last two years we’ve been talking marriage. Not that it’s not a bit of fun trying, for all I whinge about it.” 

“No, I can see that,” Harry grinned, and thought about all the secretive looks and hints of pleased amusement Draco had been handing his way for days on end. Just yesterday, actually, with that bloody swan, a hair's breadth from taking Harry’s toes right off! He’d not been averse to the Muggle appreciation, either, at least not that Harry had noticed. Sort of willing but uncertain about it all, when Harry toted him off to a Muggle place and let him loose. Taussaud’s had been a blast with Draco and the Eye had been hilarious. “Points for making her happy all the same, Ron. You’re in a win-win situation.” 

“And you’re not, Harry?” Ron chuckled. “He’s a right bloody idiot for you, falling all over himself trying to be cunning about wooing you. As if it hasn’t been obvious since that first day of Auror training you two would be shagging in next to no time!” 

“Well, about that…” Harry blushed. “It wasn’t quite immediate, Ron. I mean, we did fall into it, yes, but not the first day.” 

“Yeah, then when, exactly?” Ron widened his sharp blue eyes at Harry. 

“Um, more like the end of the first month,” Harry mumbled, looking down at the box of Teddy gifts on his lap. “July 31st, two years gone now--on my birthday. If you must know, Ronald.”

“I must, mate,” Ron huffed happily and toasted Harry with an invisible pint. “I’ve had money riding on this for ages. Private bet, don’t worry. And now I can finally collect, which means I can afford to pick up that other bloody music box I’ve been eyeing up for Hermione--the really posh one. The Lavash & Lolley’s, you know the shop? It’s in their bow window on Diagon Alley. Costs a bloody mint!”

“Oh, poor widdle Won-won,” Harry cooed, gathering up his box and rising. “I’d feel your pain, but somehow I just don’t, yeah? Making money off my back to go squander on dalliance, aren’t you?” 

“Merlin, Harry,” Ron replied, entirely unfazed and lounging back again in his seat. “You sound more and more like him every day. Besides, you know it’s not like that.” 

Harry shrugged, not terribly fussed, and got to his feet. “Sure I do, mate. Look, I’d better get back, though. Malfoy’s likely to have kneazles if I don’t show my face again this morning to go through that report Hermione sent us. She’s terribly concerned about something in it to do with the thickness of the quaffle skins and solidity of their packing, and when she’s terribly concerned, it’s best if we all are, I find.” 

“True, true.” Ron waved him off happily, likely already mentally totaling up whatever amount he’d earned betting on Harry’s personal life. “Enjoy the ballet, Harry. I shall be knee-deep in cow shite this evening, so don’t be too angry with me, alright? It’s not like you’ve not all been wagering for years with Nev and Seamus and the rest of them as to when I’d be popping the question to Hermione, officially.” 

“Oh, and when would that be, Ron? Exactly?” Harry paused by the doorway, looking at his mate expectantly. “Asking for a friend, you know?” 

“Not telling. Be off with you, nosy git,” Ron grinned. “No money to made on me. Yet.” 

“Huh! We’ll see about that,” Harry muttered aloud to himself, making his way to the lift through the mostly deserted corridors. “I happen to have an in with Hermione and she’d not let me down--oh, shite! Bloody Merlin, the time! Malfoy’s going to Hex me to pieces!” 

Malfoy didn’t, which was fortunate, although he wasn't best pleased to be abandoned, especially as the Head of the Office of Extremely Important Information had dropped by Games and Sports for a surprise visit in Harry’s absence and chattered Malfoy’s ears right the fuck off--or so he claimed later, in the theatre bar--about the lack of monitoring of foreign manufacturing. Also the unhealthy composition of quaffles and how bludgers really required additional safety padding, at least for school use. 

“Not that we shouldn’t look into it, Harry,” Draco added, frowning at his crystal flute. “Hermione, you know.” 

Harry agreed that yes, maybe they should do, because of course Hermione, and they both drank down their champers and trotted off to expose themselves to High Culture.  
  
The ballet itself was interesting enough, Harry decided, although he personally was far more invested in covertly watching Draco’s reactions to it. Draco had been very smug over the troupe of milkmaids and the dancers in their cow tutus and whatnot but then had been progressively less pleased as the performance wore on and all the rest of the traditional figures paraded themselves about the stage. In the nude, often, as Draco had predicted. Harry bit back a smile and left his Slytherin to scheming. He’d already visited the Mail Room and been the recipient of a single, slightly crumbly gingerbread man, so he occupied Draco’s head with that topic instead when Draco’s smile had gone completely inverted over the drum corps. They parted ways after a heated snog in the men’s and with Draco’s silk scarf looped about Harry’s neck, as the night had proved too chill even for a warming charm on the lonely Apparate back to Grimmauld. 

Or so Draco claimed, though Harry felt all hot-and-bothered, heavy and wanting, and climbed into the shower for a good long wank as soon as he could possibly. 


	9. A Satsuma (Slightly Squashed) Part 1

_Day Nine: I Gave My Love A Satsuma (Only Slightly Squashed)_

“Potter, good morning,” Malfoy greeted Harry by the door with a throaty growl, and dragged him into the office with alacrity. “I’ve half a mind to--last night was miserable without--oh, bloody Hades, put that stupid box down and kiss me!” 

Agitated, he threw Harry up against the one wall not floor-to-ceiling shelving and licked his way by force straight to Harry’s tea-tasting tongue. The office door slammed closed behind them, locking and warding itself with a decidedly satisfied _snick!_ sound. Malfoy had been very thorough indeed when he’d outfitted Harry against all surprises from rabid fans. No one and nothing got in to Magical Games head office without their knowledge and consent, not even a Howler. Not even Hermione some days, and that was telling. 

Harry, suddenly finding himself occupied and invaded, promptly dropped his personal correspondence on the tile and did exactly as directed, snogging the daylights out of Malfoy in return. Hang Wulfric the Mail Room Dictator and his never-ending threats to report Harry to the Minister and also hang actually getting any bloody real work done during the bloody Twelve Days! There were matters that were far more pressing. Getting off with Draco being one of those.

Draco--speking of 'pressing'--got his hands on Harry’s belt and disengaged it with a low growl, yanking hard at his trousers and the pants beneath to gain access to Harry’s cock. Harry, no slouch, got right-smart to reciprocating the favour, and it was all panting and heating wordless moaning and much breathiness and semi-coordinated hand motions for a few tense minutes until they both groaned into each other’s red faces and collapsed heaving back against the wall. 

“Oh! My gawd, Harry,” Draco muttered, blindly sticking his hand out to grab at Harry for balance as his knees finally gave out beneath him. He slumped to the floor by slow degrees, his eyes an agonized silver symphony of raw feeling. “Remind me to never, ever let you go off home without me after anything formal, alright? Those fucking robes you were wearing last night, they should be _illegal_.” 

Harry went with the downward flow happily enough and tipped himself into Draco’s lap. More or less on purpose. 

“You, too,” he said weakly, laying his buzzing head against Malfoy’s rumpled waistcoat. The faint ‘tick-tock’ of the ancient old watch in one small pocket was soothing to his ear; it helped regulate his racing heart in some semblance of normal. “You fucking rock Muggle DJs. I’ve never been so hard for so long in all my life. It was _horrid_.” 

Draco grunted his pleasure at the compliment, and they both sat quiet and drowsing for a moment or two, slumping against each other, at least until Harry roused himself sufficient to reach ‘round and collect his latest ‘secret admirer’ gift. He’d wanted to tell Draco about solving that little mystery but hadn’t found a moment since yesterday’s meeting with Ron. 

“Look at this, will you?” he asked, prying open the small box. “Satsuma this time. Perfectly harmless, completely edible, not a Dark speck to be found.” 

“I _know_ ,” Malfoy said, sounding quite Dark himself as his eyes popped fully open and he sat up straighter, “and it’s sending me barmy, Potter, this whole business.” He pulled Harry fully across his legs, glaring down at the innocuous fruit. “The Mail Room vets them, I vet them, you vet them and there’s never the slightest danger. Which is brilliant in one way but infuriating as fuckall in another. All I can say, Harry, is I’m not sure what’s happening here but I cannot say I’m impressed by the quality of these gifts you’ve been receiving--or by the sender themselves, whatever miscellaneous mad sod that is. This is blatant harassment. This is an open insult to all our safety precautions. This is maddening! Tell me, has Ronald found a single useful lead on this case? Or is he still faffing off to dairy farms and breakfast cafes?” 

Harry giggled, vaguely amused by Malfoy’s obvious ire. “No, no,” he said, patting the satsuma kindly, “it’s nothing like that. It’s little Ted, my godson. Or at least Ron and I think it must be, given the utter absence of anything nasty or love potion-like, and the fact that that’s Andromeda’s handwriting on the label.” 

“It is?” Frowning, Malfoy helped himself to the box, peering closely at the simple succinct address. “Oh, I suppose I do see some resemblance to Mum’s. Now you’ve mentioned it. Same loopy ‘P’s and funny-shaped little ‘R’s. So, it’s been him all along, you think? Is he even old enough to Owl things?” 

“We do,” Harry nodded. “Teddy’s all of four, and he was utterly obsessed by post owls and snitches and anything that could fly and go fast last I was over Andromeda’s to visit. But particularly the Wizarding post.” He shrugged. “Then I imagine she must have told him about the Twelve Days or sung him the Muggle song and he decided he wanted to send me things through the mail. Likely she thought it was a lark and went along with it; Aunt Andy’s funny that way. But I can’t think of any other rational explanation than that--can you?” 

“A simple note mentioning that would have been polite,” Malfoy sniffed, leaving go the box, “but who am I to judge? From what I’ve seen of him recently, Teddy’s a bit of a handful and Aunt Andromeda’s inclined to indulge him. I only hope he doesn’t end up as spoilt as I was.” 

“You were, very,” Harry grinned. He pressed a quick kiss against Malfoy’s cheek, just by his ear lobe. “An abominable boy, really. I have no idea why I was so obsessed with you.” 

“Hah!” Malfoy snorted, closing up the little box and setting it aside. “More like the other way ‘round, Potter. You _do_ know why I dislike your bloody fan club so much, don’t you?” 

“No?” Harry blinked up at him. “Not specifically. Other than they have no common sense whatsoever and endangered us both on the job when we were Aurors.” 

“Stupid gits!” Malfoy shook his head, curling his lip in disgust. “Longer ago even than that, Potter. Try before we even got our Hogwarts letters; that’s how many years I’ve been your avid admirer. You think I take kindly to competition--or ever have? Do you even know me?” 

“Oh,” Harry said softly. “Well, then.” 

“Exactly so,” Malfoy said sedately, rescuing his reading specs from the floor and resettling them upon his nose with an air of finality. “Now I suppose we ought do at least a modicum of work, Potter. I’m rather hoping that, if we finish by noon or near enough, you’ll--ah.” 

Abruptly he cut himself off, shifting Harry gently off his lap so that he could clamber to his feet and then offering down a hand for Harry to do the same. His bits still hung out, a testimony to how much he’d been fixating on shagging Harry and how little he cared who knew it. Or perhaps how addled he still was, Harry thought fondly, after what had to be the fastest mutual wank of the century. 

“Thanks. You’re rather hoping I’ll what?” Harry prompted, rescuing his boxed fruit and hiding his pleased little grin. It was only slightly squashed from being dropped and jostled about, thank Merlin. He looked up, gaze intent. “Malfoy?” 

“I was rather hoping you might come down to the Manor early, actually.” Malfoy had his back turned to Harry as he slowly moved across to his desk, head down and fumbling about with his trousers. “Sooner than Saturday night.” 

“What?” Harry said blankly, in midst of bending down again to rescue his rumpled cloak from the floor. He stood up slowly, throwing it over one arm, and stared at Malfoy’s stiffened spine. But Malfoy was making a decided business of not meeting Harry’s eyes, being apparently intent on rearranging some paperwork arrayed on his blotter. “What’s that now?” 

Malfoy a’hemmed but his voice, when it came, was very level. “Come tonight, instead of late Saturday. It _is_ the holiday season; any amount of the Ministry staff is already on leave,” he said steadily, seating himself with all due care, taking up a quill and only finally glancing Harry’s way when he’d fully settled in. “It’s perfectly acceptable; practically de rigour.” 

“Yes. And?” Harry frowned his puzzlement, shrugging. Was there a point to all this, then? 

Draco smiled. A weirdly forced sort of smile, wildly feral and yet awkwardly unsure, as if his face was trying to express two totally different emotions all at once. There were a lot of very nice teeth visible, yes, but the skin across those high cheekbones was stretched far too tight. Even the tumble of pale hair brushing across his high forehead seemed tense and ill-at-ease, ruffling and staticky with stray magic. 

“Nothing wrong with it, is there?” he went on, thrusting his chin out when Harry only continued to stare at him, his eyes going very wide and faux-surprised behind his spec frames. “Carpe diem, all that rot?”

“Uh,” Harry hesitated. Not helpfully at all, he was sure. But being chivvied about--even by someone quite, quite fond of him--wasn’t much to his taste. “I, um. No?” 

“Of course not. I mean, we’re owed a break, _don’t_ you agree?” Malfoy said cuttingly. As if all this were a reprimand and not an invitation. “Come now, Potter.” Malfoy jacked one eyebrow up to the altitudes, tilting his head. “We’ve been working our fingers to the bone on these bloody Standards, clearing up the rubbish that wanker Sneeze-Frightfully left behind him. I’d say we’re far enough along that I’d like to call it quits for the year and turn it the fuck over to the Minister for his review before it goes to the Wizengamot. Not that he’ll even glance at the damnable thing till after Twelve Days are through anyway, Harry. You know how it is around hols here. Nothing’s ever really finished till they’re over and done with.” 

“Well, yes.” Harry nodded reluctantly. “That.”

“Right, exactly!” Draco’s mobile features morphed from momentarily irritated and tetchy to an expression much more open and direct, his Office Malfoy mask erased. He must really want to show Harry just how invested he was in the idea of them bolting out early, Harry thought. 

“I mean,” he went on, and yes, he was definitely shifting to wheedling mode, “we can always make amendments later on--after a bit of a well-deserved holiday for ourselves. So? Will you come? Tonight though, instead of Saturday after the match?” 

Harry jerked to attention as it fully sank in, Malfoy’s insistence. He felt as though he’d spent an uncountable eternity devoted solely to standing stock still and staring at the face of his lover, his co-worker, his…? 

His ‘what’, exactly?

Harry gulped, throat tight, the cock he thought was spent stirring to life. Malfoy’s colour had pinkened attractively as he was speaking; his eyes had narrowed, flashing with determination; the oddly challenging grin vanished but the uncertainty remained about the edges of his face. He looked soft. He looked eager. He looked uncharacteristically anxious, and it all together made Harry desperately want it to stop. It made him want to cross the room and gather Draco up into his arms and make soothing noises at him, tell him everything would be okay. The ice wasn’t that thin, the edge of the cliff was nowhere near. 

“What say you?” Draco prodded impatiently, stiff in his seat, chin up as if to take a blow. “Harry? Want to do a runner with me tonight and take a long weekend away? We do deserve it, don’t dare say we don’t.” 

“Ah…” Harry gulped. “Um.” He sank slowly into his desk chair, not really noticing when his cloak slithered off his arm and crumpled to the floor. He’d not been expecting this development, not at all. Not right this moment, at least! 

Well, no, that wasn't true, really. In a way he had, but in his head he’d sort of skipped over the awkward bits. And there were so many! “But the exhibition match, Malfoy. I promised Ron--” 

“Oh, pfft, Potter,” Malfoy cut in, waving that right off. “Floo back for the match, then return to the Manor when it’s over. You’ve a key, remember? Can come and go as you please.” 

“But--your mum? Me, arriving unexpected,” Harry said. “Won’t that be an imposition?” 

“She shan’t mind a bit, Harry, and besides, there’s a winter fête in the village tomorrow evening, for the seasonal celebration,” Draco replied earnestly, waving that notion off with ease. “I was hoping you might. I mean, I’m inviting you to accompany me to it, is all. It’s a bit of fun, the fête. I went along last year, when you were away at Weasley’s, for a bit of a lark and ended having a grand time of it. You’d like it, too, I think? I mean--you _will_ like it. Definitely.” 

“Oh.” Harry considered this. “...Well.” Country villages at the holidays, all very cozy and twee. “Hmm. I’ve never been to one, actually.”

“Well, you should,” Draco insisted. “They’re smashing. Ours is, at least.” 

Harry shoved his hair back off his forehead, wavering, and not even knowing why he was doing so. He set down the satsuma box he’d been mindlessly clutching. He picked up a quill; set that down again too. He’d been just about to suggest, in a polite, sly, roundabout manner, of course, that perhaps Draco might want to stop by Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes and pick up a box of the Twelve Days DIY ones. To save himself the frustration, really. Harry hadn’t liked it much, the way Draco’s mood had subtly soured through the ballet, at least when the pipers began tooting away and all the lords and ladies did their organized flouncing. It wasn’t particularly enjoyable for Harry, caring this much about Draco and also knowing he was floundering over how to gift Harry after the ballet had proved to be a little too pre-emptive on the remaining Twelve Days items. There should be joy in all of this, Harry felt--and maybe not quite so much attendant anxiety. Merlin knew, the last thing he wanted was for Draco to start believing he was _failing_. 

He wasn’t, not by a long shot. He was succeeding like mad; Harry often felt quite Confunded with love for him. But, still, this. It was all felt just a tad, a mite, a merest particle too fast-paced for Harry’s sensibilities, even spread out like a long smear of sweet treacle over the twelve days allotted by the old carol. Harry rather preferred savoring it, this odd Wizarding courtship, at least now he felt on surer footing as to where it all was leading. 

“Well, I suppose I could do,” he began to say, only to be cut off again by Draco leaping out of his seat and striding right up to Harry’s desk, his face split into an enormously brilliant grin. His shirttails still hung out, flapping behind him; he’d not bothered to smooth his hair.

“Spiffing, Harry!” 

“--but maybe not going away toni--”

“No, no, don’t say that! Of course you could, Harry!” Draco exclaimed brightly, swooping in to give Harry a glancing buss on his ruffled mop and a lingering squeeze round the shoulders. “Of course you could,” he scolded gently, kissing Harry again, just for emphasis. 

Harry shut his mouth abruptly and silently gave in and gave up; this skirmish was all but lost anyway. 

“And you will too, won’t you?” Draco leant his warm weight against Harry’s back, draping long arms over his shoulders and rubbing his clean-shaven jaw right along the side of Harry’s face, knocking his specs slightly awry. He treated Harry to an odd slightly sideways-upside down view of his incandescent smile. It was all charm and verve and deadly intent: Draco Malfoy did so adore winning. “No ‘maybes’ about it; not allowed!” 

Harry tipped his head, trying to get a better look at Draco’s expression, a difficult thing to do from his vantage. He was clearly hugely chuffed Harry had agreed, almost suspiciously so. But the troubling cloud of his worry was banished and that was all to the good. Harry sighed silently in relief, relishing the sensation of Draco’s heart thudding against his upper back, and opened his mouth again, meaning to ask a few pertinent, practical questions. Like how, exactly, were they to broach this matter of bolting off to the Minister? Not as if he was so terribly dedicated to the wellbeing of the Ministry but he didn’t much like the thought of letting down his old friend Kingsley either. 

“Well. There is one thing, love,” he pointed out, feeling boringly duty-bound to mention it. “The Standards revisions, we should--”

“Shh! Hush! Don’t say another word about that bloody manual, Harry--it’ll keep until Monday, I swear to Merlin. We’ll do what we can, I promise you, but we, we are young, and high-spirited, and we’ve been working terribly, terribly hard, slogging away, and we absolutely should go down this evening, five sharp, soon as we’re through, and stop.” Draco closed Harry’s mouth with a one more quick firm buss; he wasn’t allowing any part of it, apparently, not now he’d gotten what he so dearly wanted. “Talking it death when it’s already quite, quite decided. I’ve all sorts of schemes and plans for us, Harry; you shan’t regret it. Come on, now! Up with you!” 

“Oi!” Harry reared back, startled, but Draco only laughed at him, all sunny-natured now and flashing a brilliant butter-eating grin. “Wait, but--what?”

“Well, I can’t help but want to get my hands on you, can I?” he crowed “Such good news and Mum will be delighted. Do come up, darling.” 

He slid fully about the side of Harry’s chair in that graceful liquid way he had and gently tugged his quarry upwards by the lapels. His resemblance to Harry’s excitable four-year old godson was remarkable, Harry thought--and it wasn’t merely their shared Black ancestry at the root of it, either. Harry bit back a grin, struggling to keep a straight face, and went with the tide, rising and kicking his chair gently back and out of the way. They’d not exactly just simply went and hugged one another in their shared Ministry office ever before, but then again they’d not ever brought each other off up against the wall of it either--so, clearly it was a day for new and different things! 

Different things, indeed, Harry mused and admired the gleam in Draco’s eyes. They were a lovely polished pewter shade, all rimmed with silver-gilt, and he was a lovely, lovely fellow when he was grinning like a loon. 

“Now, then.” Draco went right on smiling down at Harry with much fondness but his voice became much more business-like. “When I say you shan’t regret it, I meant it. You see, there’s ice skating, Harry; the village pond’s been frozen over for weeks now. Though I may have helped a bit with that,” he chuckled. “We could have a go-round tonight, after supper. The local lads like to get up a little competition of skill, and they’re quite impressive, really. Taught me a few tricks, last winter hols. It’s a bit like flying, skating--you’ll love it, I know you will, and it’s past time you learnt, damn those foul relatives of yours. I’ve some spare skates I can charm to fit you at home. And the Muggle pub’s got a decent ale and the Wizarding pub a better one. There’s Morris dancers coming along, Mum said, and there’s to be a grand bonfire and fireworks after. You really can’t say no, Harry. It’s all Muggle, alright, but it’s a bit magical too. Better, I’m sure, by leagues than anything those bloody Dursleys of yours ever allowed you.” 

“But I do--oh, alright. Sounds brilliant.” Harry agreed peaceably, leaning into the loose embrace Draco offered him and deciding not to mention he actually did know how to skate, courtesy his Weasleys. “Smashing, even.” 

“Completely smashing, trust me.” Draco nodded above Harry’s head. “Everything a visit to the countryside has to offer, Harry. Sleigh rides, caroling, even some hall decking if you care to, right? If Mum’s left us anything to deck, that is, which I doubt. There’s some big do on at the Manor tomorrow evening, so the Elves have likely had at it with lashings of garland and fairy lights already. Still, I’ve it all planned out to amuse you; have for ages already, you’ll see! And then, on Saturday morning,” Draco rambled on contentedly, hugging Harry a little tighter still and as animated as Harry had ever seen him over any sort of planned amusement. “Before you meet your pally-boy Ronald for the match, we might pop over to Bath for the Winter Carnivale there. Have a spot of tea, see the sights, ride the Reindeer Carousel. Oh, and the sea’s lovely in the winter, Harry--all dramatic. Last year there were these crazy American blokes come over to specially surf in it. Some crew from one of their schools on holiday--Ilvermorney, was it? Hmmm.” 

“Bath,” Harry said blankly. “What’s this about Bath? I thought we were staying at the Manor all weekend? And Ron is not my ‘pally-boy’, Draco, Merlin!” 

“Oh, yes! He is, rather. And we are, mostly, but there’s all sorts of amusement to be had in Bath as well.” Draco nodded wisely, as if he were the world’s acknowledged expert on the subject. “Mum’s vetted it for me. Or we could pop up to Edinburgh instead, if you like. There’s any manner of foreign visitors lodging in Old Ways Walk for the Saturnalia festivities; Wizards and Witches from all round the world--and the parties! Neverending, Harry, positively round the clock up there. Oh, I’m glad you’ve agreed to come away today, Harry. It’ll be utterly brilliant--you’ll see.” 

“Draco,” Harry said softly, reaching up and placing his palm gently across his lover’s mouth for a second to halt the babble. “Stop it. You don’t need to jolly me on quite so hard, you know? I like your company enough already, git. I don’t require being additionally amused by fêtes and hall decking and riding random reindeer on top of it.” 

“Do you now?” Draco caught up Harry’s hand and folding it down, kissing his knuckles before he clasped it against his chest. He bent his fair head just so, enough to ghost his lips across Harry’s and smiled contentedly. “Good. I should certainly hope so, as I rather like yours, Harry, ever so much,” he confided quietly, as if it were a secret to be shared only between them. “It would be a dreadful bore if you didn’t feel the same, hmm? But it’s nice to hear you say it, you know? Just...rather plain and simple. Aloud, like this. You don’t, often.” 

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Harry sighed ruefully. He bit his lip, not quite willing to meet Draco’s eyes. “I’m not much good at it, am I? You were always the wordsmith between the two of us. The clever one.” 

“Too clever for my own good, sometimes,” Draco sighed, pressing a hard, closed-mouth kiss against the corner of Harry’s parted lips. He nipped at them, their cheeks meeting warmly as he allowed for their respective spectacles, and shook his head slightly at Harry’s exaggerated eye roll and pointed head-tilt when the frames jangled together anyway. “Yes, alright. Point, Potter. That was rather beating the Bludger into the hoops, yes. Too much of what those Muggles call a ‘hard sell’.”

“I’d say!” Harry’s grin was forgiving. “I felt for a moment there I was going to spend my weekend shagging a travel monograph!” 

“Pfft, silly head,” Draco scoffed. “We’ll shag ourselves into a stupor as soon as we’re shed of this place.” He hugged Harry tight, burrowing his face in Harry’s unruly hair. “But, Harry,” he murmured. “Truly, I am so bloody glad you’ll be with me tonight. I missed you sorely yesterday evening; it felt fucking physical, the lack of you next to me. Couldn’t sleep more than two winks at a time; barely knew what to do with myself. Horrible,” he added, shuddering slightly. 

“I missed you too, Draco,” Harry murmured, tucking his face comfortably into the warmth of Draco’s neck. “Something fierce. And...every day now it seems worse, yeah? Best part of this week was staying at yours the other night, unexpectedly. But it just left me wanting more--like not quite eating enough, you know? And then realizing you’re starving later, when it’s too late and the meal’s over.”

“Mmm,” Draco hummed. “I know what you mean. You taste so brilliant, you’ve gone and spoilt me for all the rest.” 

“Yes, that,” Harry nodded sharply, scrambling hard to string some coherent words together, force them into making sense. He might not know how to express it, exactly, but perhaps he could come a little closer than he had before? 

“I suppose that’s why I don’t much care if there’s to be skating or pubs or Carnivales, any of that.” It was difficult, pulling the proper ones from a heart and head chock full of them, but all scattered, still nebulous, still expanding exponentially with every glimpse he was allowed into this particular man’s soul. “What I mean is, I know I really only care about wanting to be with you, just you. Only you. Just--not here.” Harry glanced about their crowded working quarters, jammed up still with all the pending work Smeeze-Smightly had put off, left unattended or just simply bungled and buggered up during his short, evil reign as Head of Games and Sport. “Somewhere else. More in private. And not when we’ve all this work still to do.” 

“Merlin. You!” Draco groaned, a joyfully agonized rumble rising up from deep in his chest, and kissed Harry again, open-jawed and full-tongue, throwing his whole person into it, as if Harry were his sole form of sustenance on Earth, his only reason to keep on waking. “Bugger--fucking--work. Gawds, _Harry_.” 

They snogged heatedly, hands automatically groping at clothing, so well practised at it they were half undressed in mere moments. Palms hot, grabby fingers, all animal sounds and unleashed hunger. 

It was so, so easy to get lost within it, Harry knew, superbly conscious of and completely relishing every shift of taut firm muscle beneath his clutching fingertips, every inhale and exhale they shared, every glimpse of that beloved face and those so well imprinted eyes, always fixed right back on him, only him, even when slitted nearly shut with desire. Perfectly right and properly fitting, where maybe it hadn’t quite exactly been even a day--or an hour--before now, this moment, particularly.

What the shift was, he didn’t know. Didn’t matter, what tipped it. It only struck him because he felt it deep and broad and blooming, booming hot in his chest, his cock, throbbing--his toes and his scar and his hair, standing all on end except where Draco’s hands rand through it, smoothing and stroking. 

Perhaps they’d only needed some peace instead of danger, to arrive where they were. Having been forged in war and fear and the constant vagaries of destiny, perhaps it was only possible for them to be anything more than shagging partners after they’d shared the experience of a series of long, quiet days. Days with a purpose but not perpetual threat. Days of peace and a burgeoning understanding. 

Harry didn’t know, didn’t mind so much either for the particulars at this instant; the ideas were fleeting and flitting and soon shooed away, buried in sensations. They’d keep for those little chats he and Draco shared in the bedroom, both sated and slightly inebriated on spent passion and the both of them willing to share secrets and dreams. Wanting to, nowadays, when before it had been only all about the passion. 

They’d keep, he thought woozily, his hand down Draco’s pants, his nipples hardening as Draco rucked his shirt up his chest--ah! The thud of his own heart, the roar of his blood, his pulse, pounding--Oi, fuck!

“Oi!” Harry growl-grunted, yanking himself away and partially off Draco by sheer main force of willpower. “What the everloving fuck is THAT NOISE?"


	10. A Satsuma (Slightly Squashed) Part 2

_A Satsuma (Slightly Squashed) Part 2_

_That noise_ was a sudden stacatto rapping on their office door, loud, quite insistent, very jarring--and _that_ was irritating as fuck! 

“Merlin! Go away!” Harry shouted, fending off his lover and wrenching his head about to glare daggers-and-knives at the thrice-cursed door, jittering on its poor hinges. It was supposed to be locked and warded and secure, wasn’t it? No nasty surprises, no unwanted visitors--no rabid Harry Potter Fan Club members fucking ever? 

“No! Not open for visitors! Not taking appointments either! Will you just-- **please** \--whoever you are--just stop in _later_?! Busy right now!”

The knob rattled insistently; a muffled, garbled ruckus issued from the other side of the super-secured, extra-privacy-enforced office door. Unfortunately it was also now quite discernible as the highly concerned but still frightfully rich-and-nutty tones of their Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

“Shite, _Kings_?” Harry said blankly, staring at the door. “Whatever is _he_ doing here, this time of day?” 

“ **NO**! Oh gawd, oh no, oh fuck, Harry!” Draco hissed. “Shhhh!” He yanked himself off Harry, hands flapping, and then promptly slammed one palm right across Harry’s mouth. “Shut it, right smart--that _is_ Shacklebolt! That’s the Minister, alright! I invited him up earlier! He’s--He’s come!” 

“Bloody--bloody-- _Merlin_ , Malfoy! You flaming arse.” Huffily, Harry pried Draco’s hand off his face. Scowling, he turned back to face the beleagured door and barked out a grudging apology as genially as he could manage given the circumstances. “Oops, sorry, Kingsley! My mistake! Be with you in--in just a moment!”

“Oh dear gods, here, Potter; we’re both fucking _indecent_ ,” Malfoy whispered frantically, thrusting Harry completely away with alacrity. He looked him over rapidly, cursing under his breath. “Fuck me; fuck this; _shite_ , Potter! Put your cloak back on you! Oh, where even is it? Accio, Potter’s cloak! Merlin fuck, here! Get this on you,” he ordered, snatching it as it floated up and nearly smothering Harry with the descending folds of fabric. "Merlin fuck, I cannot believe--!"

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry muttered darkly, frighting his way out from under. “I can dress myself, Malfoy. Leave off!” 

“Fuck you too, I'm only trying to help you, git-face," Malfoy snapped, eyes flashing from a blotchy face. "Oh, and do stuff your bits back in your pants, for the bloody love of Circe!” Muttering darkly, he spun away, staggering slightly as he yanked at his own trousers and pants where they had sagged down, hung up across his straining thighs. “Now where’s mine? I need mine, too--bloody fuck, my cock hurts like a--like a--”

“Merlin, Malfoy,” Harry sniped, doing his level best to look office-tidy and not at all like he’d been a half-tick away from being bent willingly over his own desk--or doing the bending; either way! “A grip, please get one! _Now_ , for a lark, you brainless wanker.” 

“Where--the--everliving--fuck is mine--oh, shite, where’s mine? Oh! Oh, over there, thank fucking Merlin!” 

Not heeding Harry at all, Malfoy went scrambled wildly for his own cloak, dragging it off the hook he’d flung it on before and whipping it about him in a flurry. He spun back to face Harry, fingers flying to fumble with his fancy cloak pin and all the while glaring hotly at all and everything, but especially at Harry. As if this was all somehow Harry’s fault, the Minister coming, just as they’d been about to. Come, that was. 

Harry, abruptly struck by the grand absurdity of it all, had a terrible time not laughing right in Malfoy’s pinched face, most of his shocked anger wiped clean away by the querulous look Malfoy subjected him.

“Gods,” he choked, trying valiantly not to giggle as the doorknob rattled again and Kingley’s voice started up again. “You look--you just look--you should just _see_ yourself, Malfoy, that’s all!” 

“Oh, brilliant, just bloody brilliant! That’s just grand, Potter. Go ahead, make fun of me.” Grudgingly, Malfoy’s face contorted into a wry half-smile. "I suppose I do deserve it, rather." He flapped a hand at Harry, the lines of tension easing. “Your face, your poor mouth, it’s all red and swollen, just--just fuck! I bet mine is too, right? Fuck, Potter, when did I become such an stupid idiot? I cannot believe I forgot about the Minister coming up. Worse still, I completely blanked out on telling you he was. Merlin, I am a complete dullard, these days. I am so sorry.” 

“Dunno,” Harry replied shortly, busily working on calming his respiration by thinking cold, sad thoughts. Gods, but they'd been so, so close! He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes briefly against the sight of Malfoy being charmingly apologetic. Bloody Slytherins! “But maybe don’t do this now, the pointless blaming? 'Cause it’s not really helping. And do up your own trousers, will you? Talk about ‘indecency’, mate. Your cloak’s not hiding that your pants are showing, you know.” 

“Well! Fuck you too, Potter!” Eyes dark with reignited temper, Malfoy spun on a sharp heel and dashed across the office to take refuge behind his desk, zipping up properly as he went. He presented a mutinous back to Harry, spine stiff as a broomstick under the folds of the cloak he was so busily readjusting. “So, I was happy, alright?" he sniffed audibly, addressing a bookcase apparently. "So, I forgot something, maybe just this once? So, fucking hex me, why don't you?” 

“I might just!” Harry exclaimed, but softly, moving to the door to open it. He didn’t really mean it but sometimes Malfoy could still be such a dick. “Don’t push me, damn you. Right, are you ready?”

“Dare you!” Malfoy spat, turning round in a fury. “Double dare you, Potty. We’ll take this outside, after he’s left.” 

“Fuck right off, Malfoy; we absolutely will not,” Harry stated firmly. “Right. I have to let him in now. Or did you really want to be sacked?” 

A tad wild-eyed from temper and the sudden case of Ministerial cock-blocking, but mostly respectable again, they stared one another down across the threadbare carpet and scattered stacks of files and reference material. Nothing could really erase the just-snogged looks they both wore, though, not even a Composing Charm. 

Nor was there a Charm to mitigate the rather heavy miasma of sweat-and-almost-shagging that permeated the air about them. either. Harry swallowed hard, cast a quick Mintus Totalus and did his best to think even harsher, gloomier thoughts, suitable for erasing all stray remnants of a near-shagging episode. He set his hand on the knob like the Gryffindor he was, wishing heartily it was his Invisibility Cloak he was wearing instead. “Okay, then. Ready or not--” 

“As I’ll ever be,” Malfoy sneered, and struck a casual pose by his desk, snatching up an important looking stack of parchments to ruffle through. “Do it, Potty,” he said, upper lip curling back to reveal an incisor. 

“Why, hullo there!” Harry yanked the door open, plastering on a huge smile. More of a grimace, actually, but there were teeth being shown, so it counted. “Kingsley! I am-- _We_ are so, _so_ sorry for keeping you waiting! Do come right in!” 

“Lads, lads, what ho!" the Minister hailed them heartily, seemingly completely unoffended by the wait. "Finally! Hate to barge in like this when I know you’re beavering away, but!” He blessed them both with a conspiritorial smile, eyes twinkling. "But!"

“Er, but _what_ , sir?” 

Harry staggered back out of the way as the Minister came bustling through the door all glowing and wreathed about with congratulatory smiles, shared equally between the two of them. Malfoy, Harry noted in passing, looked just as dumbstruck as he was. 

“No, no, all my fault--not to worry! You've not inconvenienced me, not a bit of it! I came up early; couldn’t bear to put it off another second, don’t you know?” Kingsley’s voice was even richer and smoother than usual, his air of approval practically tangible in the small space. “Didn’t want to trouble you, no. Not my intention, but," he went on, shaking his head emphatically. "Just had to take a moment to pop up and compliment you most sincerely on a job well done! Excellent Standards report the Head of the Office of Highly Critical Information has just passed on to me--just topping! Old Narnion would be spinning in his grave with envy, if only he had one, and not just that cell in Azkaban, the wretched wanker.”

“Um. Ah. Thank you?” Harry ventured, totally bewildered but going along with it. He spared a peep at Malfoy, who was frowning but also trying very hard to hide that. “Er?”

“Yes, right,” Malfoy said, peering intently at the sheaf of bound parchment Harry had just noticed the Minister clasped reverently to his broad chest. “That," he said, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Ah, no. Thank _you_ very much, sir, for the compli--oi! Wait a tick, sir! What’s that you have there, Minister, in hand?” 

“Um, Malfoy?” Harry, sensing trouble like the well-trained not-Auror he was, made a subtle motion at his co-Head, willing him mightily to shut the fuck up. “Erm. Maybe not a good--”

“Oh? Something amiss, young Malfoy?” The Minister turned kindly enquiring eyes upon Malfoy, who looked not so much thankful as suddenly livid. “This, here?" He gave the thick report he cradled a fond little pat. "Surprised you, no doubt, me having it so soon. Sorry about that, lads. Never meant to throw you off the rails like that. Pardon the confusion, do.” 

“Now, wait a moment here, Kingsley,” Harry said, aping his fellow department head’s action and focussing on that parchment prize Kingsley was holding so dear. It was irritatingly familiar--and really? It shouldn't be! “We’ve not even presented!” 

“Oh, no need, no need at all, Harry!” The Minister turned his high-power approval beam back on, full blast. “Ms Granger’s handled that already, just now. And, as I mentioned, I just couldn’t not come and let you know how impressed I am by the scope and breadth of your work, now could I? Remarkable, truly! You both should be very proud of yourselves.” He nodded decisively at them, blinking long and slow. 

“Oh, um," Harry said, quirking his eyebrows at Kingsley. "Er. Okay?” 

Malfoy, he noticed, had the same look of puzzlement; they exchanged a lightning glance before refocussing on the Minister. For, to Harry’s sure and certain knowledge, they’d not completed the review draft of the new Standards, they’d definitely not gotten round to binding it in a flashy glossy cover and they’d absolutely not turned the report over officially to _anyone_ yet, much less their Ministry superior. But yet, here was Kindgley, waving the blasted thing at them, pleased as fucking Punch. Prudently, he fell silent, internal mental gears clicking along at full speed now they’d shed the oily sensous miasma nearly fucking Draco in their office had left them coated with. If they had not done these tasks, clearly someone else had, and really there was only one single person in all the Ministry allowed any sort of mostly unrestricted access to the Office of Magical Games and Sports and that was--

“Pardon me? Hermione did _what_ now?!” Malfoy’s question was sharp as a honed Diffendo, slashing the tiny silence into shreds. Clearly he had completed the full switchover from being slightly frowzy with lingering lust hormones to being absolutely stone-cold furious. “I say, I object, sir! Strongly, I object!” He drew himself to his highest possible altitude and glared accusingly at the loosely bound report the Minister was clutching happily and beaming over. “Our report’s not finished yet, Minister! We were to present to you!” 

“ _Malfoy_!” Harry hissed, catching on right smart to the machinations of the Brightest Witch of the Century. Gawds, he loved Hermione dearly but she could’ve dropped a hint or something. Sent a damn memo. Sent them a damned Ronald Weasley, for that matter! “Hup! Hssst!” 

He made a quick throat-slitting motion when Malfoy turned his sizzlingly chilly gaze over to him in a desperate attempt to minimize the oncoming damage. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed inquisitively; they both swiveled their collective attention back the Minister when he coughed in obvious confusion.

“But she--” Shacklebolt began. “Ms Granger, that is. Hermione Granger, Head of High Crit Imp, yes? She gave it to me just this morning, Harry. Not even an hour gone. I’m not sure I understand you, Malfoy?”

He wrinkled his broad brow at them, and a troubled frown from the Minister was always on par with the crestfallen feeling Professor McGonigall could inspire if she were expressing disappointment with one’s behavior. 

“Are you implying she shouldn’t have?” 

Harry jumped straight into it, metaphorically waving his House banner like mad. “Oh, yes! I mean, no! I mean, everything’s hunky-dory. Actually, Kingsley,” Harry gulped and said earnestly, pasting a charmingly humble grin onto his face in a jiffy. “Er, actually?” 

At least, he hoped it was charmingly humble, rather. In reality it felt a bit sickly and twee. Malfoy had gone blank as porridge and seemed to be caught in some sort of strange stasis spell, leaving Harry to do all the fast talking, apparently. 

“It’s fine, it’s all fine! She _did_ mention--in passing!--she might give you a preview of the draught Standards we’ve pulled together when we all discussed it, just the other day.” He glanced sidelong at his fellow Department Head, doing his damndest to silently will Malfoy to play the Snitch he’d started. “Remember that, Malfoy? Of course you do. And I do seem to recall _you_ handled that meeting mostly on your own, didn’t you? I was unavoidably delayed by data-gathering that day. Came in at the tail end.” 

“Ah! Ah-haha.” Malfoy inhaled sharply, emerging from his statue-phase, having clearly finally twigged it. He switched on his own frighteningly plastic smile and emitted a posh bleating sort of sound, likely meant to be a knowing chuckle. “Yes, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry echoed, encouragingly. He smiled even more brightly; it rather pained his face, that. 

“Of course I recall, Potter. And so she did, indeed,” Malfoy continued on, gamely enough, brightening and tipping Harry a barely perceptible wink. He nodded at Shacklebolt knowingly, starting up the Minister to beaming once more. “Oh yes, terribly efficient, Ms Granger is. And it’s officially The Office of Highly Important Information Processing, Minister. TOOHIIP, for short.” 

“Hermione does get a bit sarky if you don’t get it right,” Harry agreed quickly, nodding along in confirmation. “Bit sensitive to acronyms after that whole SPEW thing. Rather chuffed with TOOHIIP, though. Clever, you know.” 

“Everyone always gets it wrong, naturally. Not that she’d ever correct _you_ , Minister,” Malfoy added, his tone only slightly syrupy. “Just the rest of us hoi-polloi. Hah-hah. No, I believe it’s more than she’s running a very important adjunct advisory office now and she wants to make sure it receives the respect it rightly deserves. Quite right, too.” 

“Oh! That’s so, isn’t it? I have noticed how she seems to anticipate my every need, sometimes well before I do.” Shacklebolt shed his puzzlement and smiled all the wider in the wake of it. “Well, then. I doubt that there’s any question of that; Granger’s absolutely brilliant. I know I certainly couldn’t manage half my work without her constant briefings. Case in point, boys--case in point,” he went on, merrily waving the thick bundle of parchment. “Why, this alone would have taken me days to wade through properly, give it the attention it deserves, yes? But fortunately Ms Granger’s TOOCHIP department--”

“TOO _HIIP_ , sir,” Malfoy interjected kindly. “There’s no ‘critical’.” He frowned slightly, tilting his head in consideration. “Well, not in the department _title_ at least.” 

“TOOHIIP; right, that.” The Minister echoed, nodding wisely, entirely unfazed by Malfoy’s smiling correction. “I’ll make it a point to remember, next time. In any event, she provided me with a single page point-by-point summary of the salient changes you’ve both made to the previous Standards and what ho, it read through like a First Year charmbook after that! Meticulous work, might I add? You’ve truly exceeded expectations, the both of you.” 

Harry and Malfoy both blinked at him, unsure of the proper thing to say in the face of such enthusiasm. Malfoy even went a little pink-cheeked, likely with pleased embarrassment at being praised so highly. They had both rather found the Games Standards work interesting, sometimes even enthralling, but then again, they’d both been dedicated Quidditch fans for over a decade. It was a matter of course to be fascinated, even as they complained of the drudgery. Every Quaffle did matter, in the end. There was no Quidditch without a Standard, they agreed, and forged on with the Work despite any and all obstacles they encountered. But the general public likely could give a Shrivelfig sliver about proper weights-and-measures and the enforcement of safety regulations. 

“No, no, don’t be shy, you two,” Shacklebolt chided, rifling fondly through the pages of Hermione’s natty Muggle pleatherette binding. He’d obviously misinterpreted their silence for disbelief. “You’ve gone above and beyond, what with all the upgraded safety requirements and the much stricter monitoring of manufacture and warranty standards. Left that nasty old Narnion Smight-Smeezley’s version in the dust, haven’t you? Right to do it, too. He was frightfully lax.”

“Have we?” Malfoy raised his eyebrows and shuffled his feet. Perhaps he aimed for looking humble; Harry didn’t think he truly succeeded all that well. Slytherins really did enjoy winning. Added bonus that Malfoy hadn’t even realized he was being tested. “Hmm. Well, well, Minister. I suppose we have, at that. Nice of you to come and say, though. Much appreciated.”

“Very!” Harry added, feeling the need to say something. “Quite!” 

“Oh, definitely! I daresay these new higher Standards of yours will be a total Magical Games-changer, what? Hah-hah-hah!” The Minister went off into a fit of jolly laughter, throwing his head back and slapping their report against his broad palm. “What a joke, yes? Magical _Games_ -changer, oh-ho-ho-ho! What a hoot! I simply can’t wait till the EuroMagiGamesComm lays their collective eyeballs on this beauty. It’s really going to bend their Beaters, right? Right ho, hah-hah-hah!” 

Harry and Malfoy joined in laughing nervously along, all the while furtively shifting positions about so that they stood much nearer one another. Somehow, it seemed as if they were both of the same mind: confronting whatever freakishness the universe threw at them was so much more comfortable when done together. 

_Really_. This was all very fortuitous, the Minister being so chuffed with them, Harry thought, but his winter cloak was growing nearly too hot to bear wearing indoors for much longer and he would really rather be left alone with Malfoy to sort out where they actually going this weekend. Not so much physically--on that he was pretty clear--but otherwise. He sent up a prayer up whatever higher being might be listening, perhaps Hermes? Maybe Circe? Who might then take pity and consent to delicately chivvy the Minister right back out of their office and off on his merry way. It would also be, Harry mused, fecking nice to be able to charm himself unsticky and perhaps do up his belt and trouser flies properly. He felt sadly flatfooted and Malfoy, for all his wary smiles, clearly felt the same. 

“But that’s a matter for the New Year, I’m afraid, lads. We shall just have to gleefully anticipate their discomfort for now.” The Minister finally collected himself, whisking a snowy white silk square out thin air and mopping his broad face with it. 

“Well, Minister, I am sure we are both so pleased by your positive response to our work,” Malfoy said smoothly, “but do please recall that it is still yet a draft, albeit a very complete one, and there will likely be amendments and revisions to be made, yes? I would hate for you to find it lacking in any way at a later date, but unfortunately we are sorely understaffed at the moment, due to our predecessor’s habit of draining the departmental coffers for personal use, and cannot--” 

“Oh, but that’s no longer a problem, young Malfoy,” the Minister nodded, abruptly sobering and looking very business-minded indeed, as befitted the elected wrangler of all things Official-and-Important. “As the Head of TOOHIIP has recently advised me, we’ve recouped the Galleons that nasty Narnion skimmed out of the Magical Games budget--with interest, mind!--and can now afford to provide the two of you with some support personnel. A secretary and intern, at least, to begin with.” 

“Really?” Harry’s eyes went very wide. “We’re getting some help? Bloody hell, here I thought this was on purpose, Kingsley, having it be just the two of us tackle this mire all on our own!” 

“Same here, sir,” Malfoy chimed in, stepping closer to Harry. “Rather imagined you were presenting it us as a specific challenge, Minister. Seeing as we couldn’t go out into the field as Aurors and all that time and funding wasted. Because of Potter.”

“Er…” Harry flushed. He shook his head, frowning obliquely at Malfoy. “Right, _that_. In a way, I mean. Though it was through no fault of our own, Kingsley. Like Malfoy said, remember?”

“I did,” Malfoy said promptly. “Absolutely not Ha- _Potter’s_ fault, any of it. It was his arguably insane following, sir. Always stalking him. Droves of the blighters at every turn, really.” 

“Hardly,” Shacklebolt assured them, chuckling softly. “More like I very deliberately stuck you both here in Magical Games because I already knew your teamwork would be excellent and your combined knowledge of Quidditch and the like would be well above par. And I was not wrong in that assessment, was I?” 

“No?” Harry replied, sharing a speaking glance with Malfoy. “You weren’t, sir.”

“We strive never to disappoint, Minister,” Malfoy added, lips twitching faintly. “No matter the circumstances we may find ourselves in.” 

“Right, right, I remember. Moving right on,” the Minister said heartily. “So you’ll not be too unhappy with being sent off now to have a proper bit of holiday leave? No? I thought not.” He nodded happily at their brightening expressions. “Exactly so. Now I’ve this in hand, gentlemen, all bodes well for the first Wizengamot meeting in the New Year--and that won’t be for some time, will it? Plenty of hours left to kick up your heels and have a little fun for yourselves. Please consider yourselves both free as all those birds in that old ditty, will you? Pop yourselves off this afternoon and have yourselves a few days of R&R out of Town, will you? I’m sure you’ll both be the better for it. I was young once, too, you see. I do remember those days quite fondly.”

“Wait, really? Just like that? But--” Harry gasped, hushing himself when he felt being elbowed quite sharply. 

“Riiight, thanks!” Malfoy trilled cheerily, his cloak brushing right up against Harry’s and disguising the death grip he’d taken to Harry’s wrist. “Sounds scrummy, Minister--a wish come true! We will be sure to take you at your word, sir, and take ourselves off.” His fingers tightened about Harry’s joint in warning. “Alright, Potter? We should go nowish, I think. Can’t let down the Minister here, right? Mustn’t dawdle.” 

“Er, sure?! Yes, fine, fine,” Harry replied faintly, glancing frantically about to see if there was anything he mustn’t forget to take along with. Oh! Just the satsuma. “Just going!”

Spotting it, he snaffled the little box up and stuck it in his pocket, hurriedly taking up the arm Malfoy was impatiently thrusting out of his cloak for a SideAlong. “Yes, I’m coming, thank you very much, Malfoy. Cease yanking me about, will you? Oh, and um, thanks loads, Kingsley!” He flashed the Minister his best festive grin. “Have a lovely holiday yourself, will you? Our best to your lovely wife and your family, too.” 

“Oh, indeed I will, I’m sure,” the Minister nodded. “Not to worry, lads. Go right off. I shall see myself out. Malfoy, I'll just leave that floral delivery the Owl Post people asked me to dropped offf here on your desk?” Curious, Harry glanced over at Malfoy. He could've have sworn he caught the Minister tip Malfoy a passing wink out of the corner of his eye. 

“Oh, yes, _those,"_ Malfoy nodded, looking vastly pleased by this turn of events. Harry, even more intrigued, quirked an eyebrow. "It's nothing much, Potter. Just the nine _Oncidium_ orchids I ordered to brighten up the office; I'm sure I must've mentioned it?"

"Uh...no?" Harry hesitated, not recalling anything about 'brightening up the office' ever being mentioned. "' _Oncidium_ ', you said?"

Yes, 'Dancing Ladies.' I believe that is the common name. But thank you, Minister," Malfoy nodded and shrugged casually, turning back again to Kingsley, now by the door and clearly on his way out of it. "Much obliged, sir. A very good day to you, and all compliments of the season.” Malfoy grinned slyly, looking vastly pleased, and promptly shut his eyes to concentrate. Tucking away the tidbit about 'Dancing Lady' orchids for consideration at a later date and trusting Malfoy would take care of them, Harry kept his open a sliver; it seemed to lessen the nausea he always felt if he did. A little trick Draco had taught him, back in their early Auror training days.

The Department of Magical Games Office, along with their boss, whirled out of view with a jog and swivel.

* * *

The next moment Harry was not-quite-stumbling into the familiar confines of his own bedroom. 

“Thought you might want to pack a few things,” Malfoy--no, back to being Draco again, right? Thank Merlin!--said throatily, pushing Harry across the carpet. “Change out of that--have a shower, consult with Kreacher, whatever. But first-- _Harry._ ” 

He’d Harry’s cloak stripped off in a blink of an eye, his own along with it, and was snogging him like a man starving. Harry was guided by hungry hands, walked backwards in small stumbling steps, until the backs of his knees fetched up against the mattress edge on his inherited four-poster and Draco was bending over him like a vampire in an old Muggle film, all tongue and teeth and sucking at Harry’s neck and lips thirstily. 

“I wasn’t done with you yet, Harry.” 

“Whoa--whoa!” Harry huffed, going down in an ungainly heap, Draco following after, only barely breaking lip contact as he clambered after Harry. “Merlin, Draco!” Harry fended him off and freed himself of the cascade of inconvenient bolsters that threatened to suffocate him. He set his hands firmly on Draco’s shoulders, shoving at him. “In a rush, much? What’s all this, then?” 

“ _Me_ , obviously, dying for a taste of you,” Draco said sardonically, rolling his eyes at Harry. He was flushed and short of breath, his hands twitchy where they grasped at Harry’s nape and waist. “What do you think it is, Potter?” He narrowed his eyes at Harry, clearly peeved. “We’ve just had the luckiest reprieve _ever_. Got clean away with getting off in the office, got commended for a smashing job on work we’ve not even finished yet and then handed extra holidays and paid help on top of it? Did you think I wasn't going to take advantage?” 

“No, of course not,” Harry smiled, scooching about so that he could get a hand free and immediately beginning to work on the buttons of Draco's shirt. “It’s not precisely ‘taking advantage’, either. But a little warning next time, yeah?”

"I'm sorry." Draco leaned in, his head tilted so that their assorted noses and foreheads bumped. The chill silver rims of his glasses nudged up against Harry’s. “Bloody Hades.” He closed his eyes, sighing. “Harry, love. Harry, isn’t it clear by now how much I want you? That never stops, you know. Never does.” 

“Oh, you,” Harry murmured, rubbing his cheek up alongside Draco’s and closing his own eyes, just breathing it in, all of it. The smell of them, together, familiar and warming. “I’m sorry. It _doesn’t_. Not for me, either.” 

“Then if,” Draco whispered, smoothing his fingers across Harry’s back, “if that’s true, you’ll understand _why_ , right? Why it’s so horrible to go even a night without you; why I can’t bear it, Harry.” 

“I do,” Harry nodded. Draco drew back just a smidgen, and they gazed at one another for a long quiet moment. “So. We should--” Harry shrugged helplessly, and went back to working on Draco’s buttons, a hot flush dampening his brow. “Cause I _also_.” 

“Yeah.” 

It was quiet in Harry’s bedroom. 

Quiet for a long while, but for the rustle of fabrics being shed, the mattress protesting, the minimal grunts and murmurs and gasps, muffled by mouths moving together, smoothed and polished by the hush of faraway distant London traffic on a winter’s afternoon. They said little, if anything, at least in actual words, and Harry delighted in it, the sense they had no need to make declarations or demands, or anything beyond what their bodies were clamouring for so loudly. 

It had been so different, back when they first began shagging. They’d been terse and quick about it and alarmingly efficient. They’d talked their through it--peremptory commands, surnames, quick and sharp--but it had never been anything like hate between them, or even distrust, but more a kind of constant high energy and anger, sparked into action by their very proximity. Anger at the world, still stitching itself back together. Anger at their lacks and their losses, too. But no anger with each other, Harry had been certain, even from that very first rushed moment in the loo stall down the Leaky. He’d never have allowed Draco touch him if it had been, no matter how damnably attractive he was. Draco, Harry was dead fucking certain, had felt the same. 

It wasn’t an outlet for all that anger they each required: it was release and relief and simple bloody physical succour, given freely from someone they absolutely knew. Knew, like they each knew their own wands. Understood, like they each understood their own bodies, barely out of adolescence cocks and achingly hungry arses, touch-starved skins and all. Trusted, because it felt embedded in each of them, the knowledge that they had each came first for the other one, on absolutely the most basic level of sheer survival. 

It was brilliant, the shagging. Back then. Firstly because it was bloody good fucking and then because it actively helped them, helped them survive Auror training with all its rigours. Helped them work off the lingering effects of being always en pointe, always alert, always afraid for so long. Helped them shed years of tension, that lingering mercury in the blood, the poison which had accumulated and weighted them each down unbearably, alone in their own heads and isolated there by bounds and constraints they’d never knowingly chosen. Then suddenly they’d found each other again and here was the absolutely perfect solution--the only solution, Harry had concluded. Fucking _shag_. Make it alive through Auror requirements. Shag, and train, and study, practice and shag again. Eat and drink and get off, see mates and laugh, sometimes apart but mostly together--but then fuck after or before, because it eased them along the way, shucking off those miserable leftover bitter bits, healing over the last ragged edges of fading scars. Sex on the sly, sex in secet, sex discreetly. In public loos, in rooms rented by the hour at Muggle hotels and Wizarding inns, till they arrived at the fateful string of moments when it changed over, ever so gradually, to become a matter of course question of ‘Back to mine, Malfoy?’or ‘Mine’s closer, Potter! Race you!’ 

Harry had joked to himself he wasn’t attached, that there was no one who had a hold on his heart, but even as he laughed, it was rueful. 

By the end of the first winter it had become ‘Harry’ and ‘Draco’ and it was most every weekend spent together. Not only shagging, but all the other things too. The fun things, the good things--just exactly as Ron and Hermione, actually. 

Well…

It hadn’t been a steady relationship then, so not completely the same as Ron and Hermione had. There’d been spring and summer and more often than not it was weekends at Grimmauld or Draco’s flat in a pinch, but still hardly ever nights any on weekdays. That was reserved for business, especially after Harry’s bloody fan club and the unrelenting eye of the press had pushed them out of active Aurors and landed them in Magical Games. 

But two and half years together and still ongoing was a very long time, really. Especially when they’d been orbiting endlessly round one another for much longer than that, before.

Harry smiled, and stuffed his nose into Draco’s ear, knowing his unruly hair would tickle at Draco’s eyelashes. He hummed softly, tightening his grip on that excellently fine swell of arse and twined his legs just a shade more snugly between Draco’s long gangly ones. Of the two of them, Harry had teasingly contended, Draco’s knees were the knobbier. But his upper thighs were absolutely top-knotch. And the hollow of his hips as they curved in and out to that exceedingly stellar arse were superb. 

“Mmmm,” Harry hummed, deep and quiet, shifting one hand so he could smooth careful fingertips along the line of Draco’s jaw, the corner of his slightly parted lips, feeling the gust of quiet breath upon them. Such a dear, dear face, every line of it. “Wake up, you.” 

Draco murmured in return, something wordless and expressing discontentment at being disturbed. But his long pale lashes fluttered and he opened his eyes a crack anyway, peering cross-eyed at Harry. 

“Ugh. What.” 

“It’s late,” Harry smiled sweetly. “Gone two, and you wanted to take me ice skating with your Muggle friends in your village, remember? Supper with your mother, too, right? We should go.” 

“Ah!” Draco sat bolt upright in a flurry and ran a fast hand through his sleep mussed hair. “Bloody hell. Mum’s likely having Kneazles by now!” 

“Right, right,” Harry said calmly, also sitting up. “She likely is. So give me a moment and we’ll go, okay?”

Fortunately, Harry always kept a bag packed with weekend essentials, a leftover trick from Auror training he'd learnt. Which had proved its usefulness several times over when Draco had up and decided spur of the moment they should steal away to Paris on a weekend or Portkey off to some other faraway destination in search of privacy. One speedy shared shower later and a quick word with Kreacher had them both bolting through Grimmauld’s Floo and on their way to Malfoy Manor with the shadows only just starting to go long on the horizon. 


	11. A Twist of Riband

_Day Ten: I Gave My Love A Twist of Riband_

“Oooh, feel that bracing country air, Harry!” 

Harry grinned and whooped and chased after his lover, high in the sky over Malfoy’s serried ranks of just-so orchards and fenced fallow fields. The small village of Mayfly Mere was just visible from their vantage and Harry adjusted his seat, wincing in remembrance. He was more than proficient upon a broom, true enough, but a pair of Muggle skates, even spell-enhanced by an impatient Draco, had well-nigh defeated him. His bum had met the ice one too many times for even the strongest of discreet Cushioning charms.

“Alright there?” Draco banked, dropped and then rose to come up beside Harry. “You’ve not got your usual speed today.” 

Harry smiled determinedly, shifting his arse-end yet again, and nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Just brilliant. You?” 

“Me?” Draco edged his broom closer still, tilting it. “I’m hungry,” he drawled, a come-hither look in his eye. “And not for just luncheon, either. Though Mum will have laid it on thick in your honour, you know.” 

Harry groaned, content to slow his broom and idle in the crisp winter air alongside his companion. “I don’t know,” he replied, slapping a hand over his belly. “If I could even manage more than a bite. Not much room left in me, not after last night and this morning. Tell me, is she always this way? That spread rivalled Hogwarts on feast days.” 

“She is now,” Draco flashed Harry a quick grin. “With Father well out of the picture and passing his days abroad, Mum’s pulled out all the stops. Making nice with the Muggles down in the village, Owling constantly with Aunt Andromeda, charity fetes, society dos, all that fuss and nonsense. She even hosts the Wiltshire Magical Antiquities Ball. Quite the to-do at first, making the Manor a haven for all sorts of hedge-witches and manky old Druids with mossy facial growths, don’t you know. But everyone’s got accustomed, I think. She seems to like doing it, at least.” 

“Daring! Lucius would’ve shat bricks; me, I can only applaud her,” Harry twitted and shot ahead suddenly, having spotted what looked remarkably like a Post Owl in the distance. A circumstance he was rather hoping for, at least at this point. He’d sort of assumed Narcissa had informed her sister of Harry’s whereabouts for the weekend. “Oi, look! You think that’s another one for me, from Teddy? She’s got a packet tied to her.” 

In the distance, the owl spiraled down and headed toward the Manor proper, no doubt to dutifully deliver its burden to the house elves. 

“Likely so,” Draco agreed, once again pulling alongside Harry. “He’s a very punctual kid, I’ll give him that.” 

Harry laughed and turned his broom direction, bent on following the Owl back to Draco’s ancestral home and see what was what. HIs welcome had been prodigal, with Narcissa being inordinately warm and gracious, even for the so-called Saviour of the Wizarding World. Harry suspected it had rather more to do with the way Draco kept looking his way, which was frankly sopping, and resigned himself to being made much of as best as he could. Likely he was just as wet as Draco was anyway and Narcissa was just enjoying the show, really. 

The Muggle friends Draco had made in the village were a pleasant surprise, though. Harry suspected a few might be Squib by-blows of the Malfoy family from years past, given the preponderance of blond hair and light-coloured eyes, but Draco said nothing of it, only showing a great eagerness in teaching Harry the finer points of navigating the solidly frozen pond on the edge of the village green. 

All in all, it had turned out a pleasant evening, and Harry had to smile over Draco’s poorly disguised air of triumph when the lads began executing a series of athletic leaps and twirls upon the ice. “You’ll note there’s exactly ten of them, Harry,” he’d said quietly, ushering Harry along in a sedate skate round the perimeter. “And do mark that they call themselves the Lords of the Dance, you know. Bit presumptuous, maybe, but certainly an amusing conceit, what? And _so_ appropriate. For the season, I mean.”

“You sly twat,” Harry had snorted. “You’ve got me out here, freezing my bum end right off, just to show me this? Could you not have taken a picture, Malfoy? I’d've believed you!” 

“No, no, Potter,” Draco had replied smugly. “The requirements are that it be as authentic as possible to the spirit of the song. You must know I am bloody sincere.”

“You’re bloody something, is what,” Harry had retorted, yet submitted willingly to being dragged off the ice and snogged madly round a convenient corner, under the low hanging eaves of an extremely quaint inn. Ye Olde Mayfly Armes, it was, though Harry had to wonder exactly how a mess of entangled serpents rampant _vert_ in any way had ‘arms to bear’. 

“You do know, Harry,” Draco had whispered by his ear, quite a bit later on, and cocooned in the safety of his bed, “you do realize that I shall be going down on one knee for you in just three days? I have been counting down the hours, darling--so hard to wait so long.” 

Harry had only nodded, lips twitching, too full of warmth and comfort and satiation to afford actual words admitting so, and given in gratefully to the welcoming embrace of Morpheus. 

But this was a new day, a fresh one, and Teddy’s present was a puzzler. More puzzling yet was the additional missive attached to the owl’s other leg. It was addressed to both Draco and Narcissa, and Draco retrieved it with a tiny frown. 

“Botheration,” he scowled, having ripped it open and scanned it quickly. “Auntie has sent her regrets for this evening. I shall have to inform Mum immediately, Harry. We’ll need stow our brooms and gear and track her down. She’ll be wanting to see this.” 

“Her regrets?” Harry questioned, following dutifully along behind, Teddy’s riband tucked safely away in his pocket for further consideration at a later time. “For what?” 

“Tonight’s Ball, of course,” Draco threw casually over his shoulder. “Oh, and no fear. I put your other set of dress robes in your valise when you were speaking to Kreacher yesterday afternoon.” 

“Er, pardon?” 

“Tonight.” Draco turned about as they came upon the rather posh equipment shed and gave Harry a look. His face changed the instant he saw Harry was genuinely confused. “Oh, but it could be that I didn’t clarify, darling. Mum’s ball for the Assorted Antiquities is tonight and we will be attending, naturally. I took the liberty of repacking your bag to include a suitable robe. Alright, there? All clear now?” 

“Dancing, Draco.” Harry pursed his lips and arched a sour dark slash of an eyebrow at his Slytherin, wrinkling the faded silvery mark of his scar. “Not my favourite activity ever, as you should well know. Right, then. Is there any way to cut this short and not offend her? I’ve no real interest in being disgraced on the dance floor. So no, not so much, ta for asking. If you truly cared for me, you’d find a way to excuse us early.” He smiled sweetly as he could, suppressing a shudder. It wasn’t that he minded the dancing so much, it was the doing it in public. He and Hermione could more than pass muster and he and Draco had certainly achieved a decent Muggle waltz on more than one occasion. 

“No, sadly,” Draco smiled just as sweetly in return, ushering Harry through the door. He immediately beginning the process of discarding the padded vest and limb protectors he and Harry used when trusting out new broom models. “That, I cannot. Mum’s gone to rather a lot of fuss to arrange it specifically for this evening and it is for a good cause overall. Preserving something-the Black Knight-something in the village, I think she said. Well, two good causes, really.” He smirked. “But take heart, Harry. You do look super in full formal kit, nonetheless, especially now as you’ve had a few years practise with a much superior partner. I’m looking forward to it, really, seeing you in that Muggle tux. And the Antiquarians are not the sort to fawn and fuss. Try not to fret so, love. I’ll take good care of you.”

“You’d better,” Harry muttered darkly, and tromped off after his lover in a decided sulk. He continued to grumble all through their shared bath and even considered turning away when Draco tried to get in a quick snog. But he couldn’t; how could anyone bear to refuse a man who touched him so gently and drew back at once when he saw Harry was truly miffed? They did snog, a nice leisurely making-up one, and Harry quietly blessed Hebe and Hera for never ending magically hot shower water. 

But it wasn’t so horrible, really, Harry thought, being twirled about the polished parquet by a man attentive to his every need and anticipating all of them. He’d been well-plied with champagne and mead and a large snifter of most excellent brandy after a truly decadent supper en famille, and Draco had altered his newest set of dress robes so they actually fit comfortably. Unfortunately he’d also spelled them with an eye-popping Op Art pattern, but Harry found he didn’t mind so much as long as he didn’t look at himself too often in any of the many floor-to-ceiling mirrors that ringed the ballroom. As for Draco, he was clad in a form-fitting silvery lame jumpsuit, a la that fit Muggle Travolta, and had his hair side parted, half slicked back and a goodly swath of his fringe hanging rakishly over one eye, a la that Wizard David Bowie. Harry tried not to show it too overtly but he was inwardly absolutely gagging to shag the man and it was literally only the sheer amount of Narcissa's odd Antiquarian punch he'd consumed already that prevented him. 

Draco, perhaps deceptively, seemed made of sterner stuff; he, at least, wasn't slurring. 

“Will you forgive me, then, Harry?” he was asked softly, whilst being deftly guided about a pack of chattering ‘Quarians spilling messily onto the dance floor from the bar area. Narcissa’s theme had apparently been the Swinging Seventies and there were rather a lot of Witches, Wizards and Wix clad in eye-shattering shades of tangerine and aubergine, and far too many platform heels for Harry’s liking. He was bloody short, and being perpetually looked down upon was bloody irritating. “I’m sorry but I had to, you know. The opportunity was just too good to miss and I did mention I was committed to thish.” 

“Thisssshh!” Harry giggled, enjoying the fumes of the brandy on Draco’s breath, and flapped a hand at the scene. “S’not that bad. Coulda’ been cow shite, yeah? Like Won-Won, yanno? You’re a sly git but I suppose I’ll forgive you...evenshually.” 

“Well, I hope you do, love,” Draco chuckled, “Though I wouldn’t mind a spot of make-up shagging in the Conservatory if you’re really that angry with me. But I had to make certain I’d covered all the proper numbers, you see.” He gestured about the room, which overflowed with dancing ladies and sprightly lords and an entire full orchestra stuffed in the gallery. “Slytherin courting does tend to be thorough, you know. When it says ‘nine or ‘ten’ or ‘eleven’’, we rather tend to want to give a baker’s dozen. Speaking of, have you counted up the pipers, Harry? Rather more present and accounted for than even I expected. Mum must have engaged two musical groups. I’d only asked for the one.” 

“I’ve notished,” Harry nodded hazily, enjoying the spin and the fleeting glimpses of what were likely perfectly respectable members of Wizarding society on any given day doing The Hustle in terribly garish clothing. “Very...very...loudish, yeah.” The one Wizard who greatly resembled that Muggle Travolta chap was rather fit, he decided, eyes following an arse which had aged quite well. Likely the gentleman had been a serious Stubby Boardman fan. Harry fluttered a few fingers at the spectacle of it all before bringing his wandering eyes back to focus on this partner. “S’nice, yeah. Very impresshive, all of it. I feel very...very.” 

“Very much in the mood to say ‘yesh’, I hope? I mean, ' _yes_ '. _This_ way, please.” Enunciating very clearly, Draco halted them dead in their tracks and led Harry off the floor as the band began a somewhat psychedelic rendition of ‘YMCA’. “Come on, then. I think we can finally make our excuses to Mum. I should either pour you into bed or pour a potion into you, not sure which at this point. Tho' I know what I'd rather.” 

“...’Kay. Me rather too,” Harry nodded agreeably and smiled and smiled, bobbing his head at the coterie of Twiggys and Elton Johns--who knew there were so many shocking pink feather boas to be had this far out of London? And corsets; so many corsets!--and accepting Narcissa’s wishes for a restful night with a panache born of several too many flutes of champers. 

“Can’ wait to be shed of this horror I’m in, anyway,” he remarked as they made their way up the multitude of landings and passages that led to Draco’s suite. “Could you haff made it any louder, Draco? Rather want to spell myself fully blind by now, so’s ‘M’not forsshed to shee mysel’.”

“Yes, yes,” Draco laughed. “But think how nice it would be to be naked, Harry? The both of us? Then we could just shee the good bits, yeah? Yours are very good, _I_ think.” 

Harry did indeed think about that, which left him leering in a vaguely charming manner, apparently, and then Draco helped him with making that scenario happen, and, although it wasn’t a particularly ‘restful’ evening and there was some further disagreement and bickering as to who was doing what to whom and how hard, it was still a lovely night. And a fine capstone to Draco’s ingenious Twelve Days, Harry concluded, come the following the morn. Which was Saturday, the day of the exhibition match Harry had committed to attend with his best mate Ron. His best mate Ron, who was deep in the throes of Twelve Days for their best mate Hermione (‘the love of my life, Harry, I mean it!’ Ron had sworn, emerging exhausted from yet another posh shop some days ago) and probably expected Harry’s full attention to be focussed on that. Entirely understandable, of course. 

Rather unfortunately, that left Harry feeling vaguely guilty. Rather, quite intensely lacking, and on at least two counts. 

No. Make that _three_ , damn it.


	12. A Pebble

_Day Eleven: I Gave My Love A Pebble_

“Argh, Harry,” Draco groaned, rolling over and flailing out a nightgowned arm wildly. “Wh’re’uu?” 

He groped for his declared intended-to-be-intended, but Harry was already well up, bathed, nourished, outfitted suitably for a cold December’s day at the Euro League Annual Exhibition Quidditch Match and sipping his tea, ensconced comfortably by the small hearth. A copy of the Standards manual revisions lay open in his lap and he now and again wafted about a brilliantly scarlet-inked quill, scribbling furiously in the margins. Had been likely, probably, definitely nibbling upon the feather end between sips, as was his habit when concentrating, but he wasn't admitting that he had done, as he rather always enjoyed the scorching glances he got from Malfoy when he did it in the office.

But they were decidedly not in the office, they were in Wiltshire and Harry’s host was clearly under the weather. 

“It’s so bright,” Daco moaned pathetically, levering himself up and glowering weakly at Harry’s bland face and not-quite successfully muffled chuckle. “You’re working? Why’re you working? We’re on holiday! Put that away immediately, Potty, and come back over here. You’ve no business being out of bed when I’m still in it.” 

Harry didn’t even vouchsafe a reply to that nonsense, only gave Draco a speaking looks and continued on with his red-inked quill markings. Draco moaned and flopped sideways. 

“What, no sympathy with that tea? And here I am, all alone and feeling like kneazle vomit. You’re a prick, Harry Potter. How can you stand being so cold-hearted, abandoning me? More importantly, how can you bear all this ghastly light? Have the elves been in, polishing the window panes again?”

He made a vague motion of rejection, rather limply to be sure, and scowled. Resembling a peevishly consumptive Victorian ghost. It set Harry finally to laughing aloud. He cast aside his work and gazed fondly at his wan and cantankerous lover; a far cry from the previous evening’s fine and debonair gentleman, he decided privately. 

“ _Whaaat?_ ” Draco demanded, his eyes now screwed shut against the afternoon’s rays. He’d curled himself into a loose ball under the duvet, his distinctive hair sweat-darkened and all sticking out every which way, calling to mind the impression of a disgruntled blond hedgehog. 

“Poor Malfoy,” Harry chuckled, examining this delightful picture with affectionate amusement and some small amount of lingering annoyance. “No, I don’t have any sympathy, love, not a drop to spare. Likely because someone was being super-extra-stupidly-chivalrous last night--ridiculously so!--and insisted he shove down my throat what was apparently the last Hangover potion in the entire Manor. Instead of sharing it between us, as I suggested, and which he arrogantly decided wouldn’t do. So, no. You brought this upon yourself, Draco.” 

The man did deserve some small payback for convincing him to trip the light fantastic, after all. But only a little; Harry could never be that cruel. 

Draco grunted. But pathetically. He also poked his full head back out and regarded Harry with wide bloodshot eyes. 

Harry nodded. “Hmm, remember that, darling?” he prompted when Draco wrinkled his brow in obvious puzzlement. “No? You swore it was a sign of your undying adoration. You vowed upon the bones of your ancestors--and I quote--that no Malfoy-to-be would ever be allowed to experience the slightest discomfort. Also that if I ever told anyone you’d done such a Hufflepuss thing--and I quote!--you’d be summarily booted from Slytherin House for a woeful lack of subtlety and overt soppishness. However. That aside?”

“Meh,” Draco made a strange gurgling noise and trickled trembling fingers at him, blinking slowly. “S’true, isn’t it? Was wet of me. Very wet. Still love you, though. Was worth it.” He seemed very adamant about it, that last bit. His voice was the strongest it had been the entire time since he’d woken. 

“Yes, love,” Harry grinned fondly, “and that’s mutual, believe me, so not so wet, but you still look like a bloody Inferi. Likely feel like one, too. I told you we should’ve shared.” 

“Nuh-uh,” Draco shook his head--but very carefully, Harry noted--and made motions as if he was actually going to exit the bed and attempt the upright. “M’fine!” 

“No, no!” Harry protested, alarmed. “You are demonstrably not ‘fine’, Draco Malfoy! Stay right where you are, please!” 

He made shooing-and-shushing hands at Draco, who rather did remarkably resemble one of the more tragic vintage spirits of the Manor, what with his pasty pale face imbued with a gawdawful greenish hue and that voluminous white linen nightgown he insisted on donning the moment the calendar ticked past the winter solstice. 

The last thing Harry wished was for Draco to chunder all over the bed, or more likely fall out of it by accident and crack his spinning head open, which would be just horrible all ‘round, plus create a huge mess of one sort or another, and likely ruin the mood for the remainder of the day for the both of them. Best solution was for his recalcitrant beloved to rest quietly and await the eventual succour of the Manor elves' brewing. Narcissa had assured Harry at luncheon that they were nearly finished the vat of emergency Hangover potions she’d ordered up bright and early this morning. 

Apparently the scion of the House was not the only one so afflicted. Any number of Antiquarians had fallen off their platform boots and passed out cold upon the dance floor. Narcissa was faced with a large, unexpected house party, mostly ailing. However, she seemed to be enjoying it immensely and was clearly at the top of her game. She’d declined his offer of help with alacrity and insisted he not be in the slightest troubled by it all. And especially not by her son, whom she assured him would be perfectly well by the evening hours. 

Harry had managed to do justice to his luncheon under her watchful eye and had further agreed to continue on as planned. He was to Floo off to Grimmauld and attend the exhibit with Ron. Despite Draco’s whinging, ta very much. 

Besides, Harry sadly had little time to waste, or at least not time available to be spent patiently clasping his beloved's sweat-grubby fingers and listening to him bemoan their lost opportunity of a seaside jaunt to Bath in search of yet more holiday jollities suitable for his Slytherin Twelve Days schemes. Oh no. He’d his own scheme for the day, one that absolutely did not include popping off to Bath or even Wizarding Edinborough, and it wasn’t such a bad thing his particular idiot knight-in-shining was clearly a bit under the weather. 

Privacy was key. Harry was determined to be very cagey should Draco pry for details of his day out later on. For he’d a little gifting of his own to do and for that he needed the wise advice of his best mate Ron, whom he was just about to rudely skive plans on, as he rather urgently had to trawl the shops for Twelve Days presents of his own to give. 

“Buahh, goo,” Draco muttered, or something like that, and subsided back upon the mounded up cushions, looking utterly wrecked. “Urgh. Why’m’I not feeling better by now, H’rry? Kill me, I beg you. Jus’ take me out of my ms’ry, won’t you please?”

"No,and don’t say shite like that, idiot. You should lay back down fully, you know, and actually sleep some more,” Harry advised. “You’ll feel more the thing with a longer kip. A full day of rest is likely the best thing for you. Well, that and a potion when it’s ready. You know I don’t care for it much, you pushing yourself. It’s not about a competition between us, finishing the Standards, Draco. But sometimes you certainly act like it is. Tsk!” 

Harry frowned his general disapproval of all the rush they’d been in, and especially Draco. 

“Nnn.” Draco fretfully yanking the duvet right up to the level of his nostrils. “I bloody well hate,” he stated flatly, flaring them and blinking watery red-rimmed eyes at the soothing moss green velvet of his bed canopy. “When you’re this fucking right, Potter. Just. So. Not. Fair of you, doing that.”

“Really, now?” 

Draco didn’t reply and didn’t reply, silent for long enough that Harry wondered if he’d finally nodded off, then roused himself again suddenly, opening his eyes to squint apologetically at Harry, who started. He’d been checking that he’d his wand and his pouch full of Galleons, making ready to sneak out of the bedroom and head down to the Malfoy’s Floo. 

“Right, no, _sorry._ Please promise me you’ll AK me for saying _that_. I do realize it’s not very lover-like. But still. That was cruel. Cruelly correct.” 

“Nope,” Harry shook his head, getting to his feet. “Not meant to be. Only just common sense, Draco. You do need more rest--you really do! You’ve been wearing yourself to nub over the Standards--don’t think I didn’t catch all those broom tests you did for that final Quaffle Quality compilation report when you thought I was busy elsewhere. Plus this horrid obsession you’ve developed lately, inflicting all manner of culture upon me when I least expect it--for shame, Draco!” Harry shook his head, clucking his tongue. “No, no. You’re exhausted, it’s clear as day. Desperately in need of a long lay-down. It’s our holiday--I insist you spend at least some portion of it relaxing.” 

“Hah!” Draco cast a dramatic arm across his face, barking out a bitter laugh. “You jest, Harry. Twelve Days, done properly, is no laughing matter. I am hardly to be called ‘obsessed’, I’m simply treating this entire ritual with the respect for tradition it is owed--and you, as well, you Muggle-raised heathen. I have no time to relax, as you call it. I have plans for us this morning, remember?” 

“Draco, it’s gone two o’clock,” Harry replied. “You’ve missed breakfast, elevenses and luncheon. Your mum sends her best regards, by the way. “ He grinned at Draco’s gobsmacked expression. “It’s far too late for the likes of Bath today. In fact, I must be off to London to meet up with Ron. I’m already a little tardy. I was only waiting on you to wake up, love.” 

“What, really?” Draco groped feebly for his wand, casting a Tempus, which he then stared at, wall-eyed and visibly distraught. “Bloody fuck me, it _is_ . Well, fuck that for a lark. It’s all ruined now, all I was doing for you today. You probably hate me. Merlin, you _should_ \--I’m such a shite suitor. I’ve bollocks’d-up Twelve Days, Harry. I cannot believe myself--I’m such a cad, such a thoughtless idiot--and after all this!” 

“It isn’t, really,” Harry assured him, coming over by the bed to lay his hand upon Draco’s mussed hair and stroke it. “There, there, calm down. Not bollocksed at all. And you’re just suffering from overindulgence and not enough sleep. You’ll feel much more the thing if you just rest, you know.” 

“No, no, I’ve gone and botched it,” Draco muttered darkly, pointedly rolling over and presenting his back to Harry. “Dunno how I’m ever supposed to ask you properly now. Ritual’s ruined. Mum’s going to tear me a new one, no doubt. I should go die in a hole, is what. My life is all but over--I’m destined to be alone forever, once you realize how horrible I am, Harry.” 

“Right-oh, that’s it. Bloody _enough_ , yeah?” Harry snorted. He kept on stroking the ruffled, every-which-way winter wheat head of hair and stroked it gingerly. “Look, you. I’m terribly fond, Malfoy, but you’re currently putrid in the brain, completely unreasonable, you reek of spunk and brandy fumes and there’s literally no sense us arguing about any of it. Nothing’s been ruined, nothing’s been botched--I can’t for the life of me imagine ever hating you again for anything at all _ever_ , alright? I bloody love you, you nincompoop! So, get over your great bloody arseishness, will you? Now stop whinging! Get some more sleep, have a bath, have a nice Pepper Up--the elf who was in earlier said they’d bring you one in a bit--and I’ll see you this evening, alright? When you’re in a better mood, I sincerely hope. Alright? Cheers, then. I do hope you feel better soon.” 

“...Harry?” Draco rolled over at that, opening his bloodshot eyes wide and beseechingly at Harry. “Do you really have to go, love? It’s only an exhibition match, you know. There’ll be another in Brussels in January.” 

“Yes, I do.” Harry smiled reassuringly. “Sorry, but I did promise Ron and you know how he gets. Besides, he’s supposed to tell me how it’s going with Hermione. Sort of want to know about that. Expecting some happy news there, right?”

“Yes, alright,” Draco nodded, looking as if he saw the sense in that. “No, he will, and I’d be more of an arse than I already, keeping you here when he’s likely been gagging to drag you shopping for their wedding bands. Hah! And then celebrate them, naturally.” Harry nodded, watching his ailing beloved carefully. Draco looked terribly sleepy though, more so as he mulled over the topic of Ron and Hermione’s inevitable engagement and the lingering tension left his shoulders and face. Harry felt scads better about leaving him, as it seemed he would actually lay abed and not be up and running about planning yet more Twelve Days make-up festivities to drag Harry to in lieu of the Bath do. “But Harry? Swear to me you two won’t get so hammered at the Leaky after that you can’t manage to get back here? I do want to spend at least some time with you today, Harry--preferably when we’re both relatively sober and not in a rush--or feeling like an Inferi, as you say.” 

Charmed, Harry bent down and pressed a loving kiss against his lover’s pale forehead. He smiled. 

“Alright, love. I promise I’ll not be too late--if you promise to do what’s needed to feel well and stop being freaky about a bunch of birds hanging around trees and some random people cavorting, okay? I believe I’ve had enough dancing to last a lifetime already!” 

That set Draco off to laughing weakly, which then made him clutch his head and groan. Harry dropped another quick buss on his brow and scarpered, with the firm intention of finding Narcissa and asking her to ask the elves to send up the necessary potions immediately. 

“Oi, Ron!” he shouted, landing in his own living room at Grimmauld, and immediately turning about to stick his head in the Floo. “You there, mate?” 

The flames flicked blue and then green and finally resolved to reveal the harried features of Harry’s friend. “What the ever living fuck, Harry? You were supposed to be here ages ago!” 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Harry shrugged, shamefaced, “but Draco was in a bad way and I couldn’t just leave him. Look--I’ve bad news, Ron, and I’ve a favour to ask on top of it. Promise you shan’t hex me?” 

Ron looked peeved but also concerned, peering through the Floo with his brow rumpled and fringe flopping over his eyes. He blinked at Harry, sticking a hand out. “What, is Ferret alright? He’s not in hospital, is he?” 

“No, no, nothing like that,” Harry shook his head sharply. “We just both had rather a lot to drink last night--his mum hosted this weird Antiquities ball, Merlin save me! We were forced to attend it, but we both got absolutely bladdered and seems there was only one Hangover Potion in the entire bloody Manor and he insisted I have it. So he’s quite poorly still and I have to go shopping, Ron, because he really does love me and I’m not a total twat, alright? Will you help me, please?” 

“Merlin, you git. All the fuss, always the fuss, Harry.” Ron issued a disgusted noise and flapped a large hand at Harry. “Right, move aside; I’m coming through.” 

“Right, yes, ta!” Harry exclaimed, scrambling back to give his friend room enough to enter. “So you will, yeah? Because I need to skive the match, Ron, and go find Draco a Twelve Days gift worthy of all he’s done for me--Teddy, too, mate! That little scamp’s been Owling me these odd little gifts all this time and I’m feeling awful, not giving him anything in return. Today he sent me this odd little pebble. Quite pretty, really, but I’m still a bloody terrible godfather, Ron, by not even giving him so much as a card in return, all this time--and I’m probably not exactly Draco’s romantic dream by now, either! Bloody selfish, that’s what I am!” 

“Wait, now, slow down, Harry!” Ron huffed and made his way over to the sofa, flopping onto it with a long-suffering sigh. “So, let me get this right. One, you’re abandoning me, who’s right down to the wire with his own Twelve Days nightmare, and two, you’re popping off to throw Galleons around Diagon instead? So you won’t feel like an arse? And in the aid of convincing the Ferret--who’s bloody head over heels, Harry; what are you even worried about, honestly?--and then also so you can spoil your godson even more than you already do? Is that it? In summation, I mean.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry admitted, sinking into the other end of the sagging old sofa with a heavy sigh of his own. “It’s just.” he peeped over at Ron, who fortunately didn;t look anywhere near as peeved as his words implied. “It’s not even the guilt, Ron. It’s more like I want them both to know they’re important to me, you know? Twelve Days isn't something that I really know much about--or even care much about, really. It’s an old Wizarding tradition--and I’m not and never was an ‘old Wizarding tradition’ sort of person, you know that.” 

“Bloody right.” Ron bobbed his chin, frowning at Harry, his eyes very blue and piercing. “Lucky sod, I always thought. Give me a simple Muggle upbringing any old day, mate.” 

Harry laughed weakly, shrugging. “Yes, well. There’s that, but I still. I just want him to know, okay? Both of them, really. That I--that I really care. About them. With--with all my heart.” 

“Yes, fine. You care. And how am I supposed to help you with that, Harry?” Ron demanded, crossing his long lanky legs and lounging back in his corner. “Not your personal shopper, you know. Plenty of that on my plate already with Hermione’s Twelve.” 

“Oh, not--nothing like that, Ron,” Harry replied, also easing back into his end of the settee. “I just want to know if you happen to know if George has anything suitable for a little kid down at Wheeze’s? Oh, and if you can also perhaps tell me any particular shop I might go looking for something nice for Draco? I know you’ve been all over, seeking just the right gifts for Hermione. Spensive Alley, for one, right? Plus you maybe also be willing to forgive me? Since I’m leaving you on your own at the match and all. I did rather promise and I really do want to know how it’s going with you and her.” 

“What? That’s what you were fretting over?” Ron laughed, a rollicking jolly laugh, and pointed a finger at Harry. “You know,” he chuckled, apparently enjoying the puzzlement and growing affront Harry couldn’t quite disguise. “You are a real prize, mate. A very special Wizard indeed! Alright, since you’re asking so sincerely, I’ll have you know Hermione’s Twelve Days are coming along swimmingly and she’s pretty much promised me already she'll say yes when I pop the question on Sunday. We also,” he went on, drawing himself up and putting on the poshest air possible for a towering ginger decked out in a Cannons jersey and glaring orange trainers, “trod the light fantastic last night, I’ll have know. Turns out Hermione’s rather a fan of the disco. Muggle at least. And so am I, I guess.” 

“Really?” Harry breathed, aghast. “Like, the actual Muggle disco club, that retro one Luna found in Covent Garden and raved about to us? What was that called, anyway? _Sway_ or something like?” 

“No,” Ron said matter-of-factly, “not that one. There’s one in Clapham too but we actually went to Soho. Hermione wanted to hear the sounds that influenced Boardman, you know? So we did. Had a blinding good time; she was chuffed with me, I tell you.” 

“Brilliant, mate!” Harry exclaimed. “That's the spirit!” 

“I’ll say,” Ron allowed, looking smug as he sat back again and recrossed his legs in the other direction. “And you know Hermione, she always has Hangover potions in that bag of hers. We’re both in fine fettle today, ta very much. Pity about your Ferret, though.” The concerned look returned briefly. “He’s likely wanting to hex himself by now if he’s not had a potion to fix it.” 

“Yes, he’s none too pleased,” Harry agreed, “but hopefully his mum’s got him sorted by now and he’s just sleeping. So...about Wheeze’s having something for Ted? What do you think?” 

“Oh, yeah,” his mate replied. He pursed his lips, looking thoughtful and a tad proud of himself. “My idea, actually, that one. Needed something for little Victoire and then Percy’s kid, too. You know how the kids like open the packages at the holidays and act as if they’re all grown up, doing what the adults do? Well, Bill and Fleur are of course still completely soppy over one anothere and give each other the Twelve everybloody year, so they needed something similar for Vicky. So, yes. You’re in a spot of luck, mate. George and I have put together a little set for the little ones, Harry, and it’s not bad quality, either.” 

“Oh?” Harry grinned; he’d known asking Ron would be the better idea. Hermione was always incredibly helpful but he likely would’ve ended up in Muggle London, lost in the crowd of shoppers at Harrods or some such, if she’d been the one to advise him. “Yeah?” 

“Hmm-mm,” Ron said. “Finger puppets mostly, what with all the dancing and counting, but there’s some pretty innovative little bird toys in it, and then the five gold rings bit is actually a puzzle. Hermione was quite pleased with that one. Said it was good for their developing brains, the children, having to work out the logic.” 

“Brilliant!” Harry burst out, jumping up to his feet and taking a pace around the carpet. “Teddy’s sorted. What about Draco, though? Where should I even start looking, mate?” 

“As to that…” Ron tapped a forefinger against his chin. “Rosen & Guilder, I’d say. Right down the bottom of Diagon Alley, Harry; you can’t miss it, really. Very nice boutique atmosphere. Be totally to the taste of your posh git. Bought a few trinkets there myself recently, for those days when I couldn’t manage to sort out hiring a whole entire Morris Dance troupe and stuff it in Hermione’s office at lunch break. You know how it is, Harry.” He shrugged philosophically. “It’s bloody difficult, is what, working these things into a busy schedule. Thank Merlin it’s finally the weekend!”

“Oh, alright, I’ll pop down to Diagon straightaway, then; see if I can get them both sorted.” Harry halted in his tracks, staring down at his best mate, who seemed remarkably unfazed for someone who’d been rather snippy with him earlier. Honestly, now that Harry was paying full attention, Ron seemed like he was on the verge of bursting out into full-on guffaws again. “What? Why are you looking like that? Are you laughing at me, Ron?” 

“Oh...It’s nothing, mate,” Ron grinned, also getting to his feet. The settee groaned behind him as it released his weight with a little puff of antique dust. “Just thinking it’s nice, is all. Me and Hermione, you and Malfoy. Mum’s over the moon, a bit, looking forward to you both coming for supper tomorrow. It’ll be cozy, me and Hermione think. All of us, finally together. Took a good long time, it has. Brilliant it’s finally happening.”

“You,” Harry felt a grin blooming across his entire face, “are a wily wanker, acting like you always knew! How could you even--I mean, Ron! I didn’t have a clue and I’m the one’s been shagging him all this time!” 

Ron rocked back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest and rumpling up his Cannons logo something fierce. 

“Well...as to that, mate? Actually had a bit of a head’s up from the posh git himself, late last year, Harry. He came down the Burrow, remember? To help Dad with that Muggle device, that WeeWee thingjammy game Percy gave Dad for his birthday? Hermione had mentioned it to him, in passing, and he said he’d come across some information on Muggle games and could maybe help us out with it. So? We got to talking, you know, whilst he was sorting out the controller. About what our chances were, the both of us. Me, with her; him, with you. But Hermione was still run off her feet with setting up TOOHIIP to her liking and you. Well, you weren’t nearly ready, Harry. Not for that, not for Twelve Days, the full-on version. He was actually playing it quite cool this year, you know. Didn’t want to force it, I s’pose. Can’t say I blame for it, either. More the opposite, really.” 

“That git!” Harry narrowed his eyes and hissed his frustration. “You know, he could have bloody well asked me, Ron? Just--just outright asked me, you know? Here I’ve been going along, not wanting to say anything myself, but sort of wondering, see? It’s been years now, when I think about it, practically since day one of Auror training, when we went into the loo at the--”

“Stop! Stop right there, Harry! Hush!” Ron slapped his palm straight across Harry’s open mouth, alarmed. “No details, remember? Absolutely. No. Details. Ever. None of mine, mate, and none of yours, ta very much!”

“Mmmph-mpph!” Harry nodded frantically, tearing Ron’s hand off his nose. “Merlin, alright! You don't have to suffocate me; I’ll shut it, I swear!” 

“Best you do, mate,” Ron said seriously. “And me too. No interest whatsoever in the hexing I’ll get should they ever compare notes, yeah? You should be worried too. Some of those Malfoys really were Dark, Harry. Don’t make me fret over your health and welfare, mind.”

“No fear,” Harry agreed, quite seriously. “Anyway, Ron, I’ve got to be on my way if I’m to be back at the Manor at any reasonable hour. Narcissa’s been quite sweet to me, but she’s pretty adamant about appearing promptly at the supper table. I’ve only a few hours to accomplish all this.” 

“Alright, Harry,” Ron said, making his way over to the Floo. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right? Good luck with it all. Hope you find something to his liking at Rosen & Guilder’s. You’ll likely spend a vault or two but they should have something that’ll do him, I’lll wager. And George is your man for little Ted’s gift.”

“Hope so! Cheers, Ron. Thanks again for letting me off today, mate,” Harry said earnestly. “I really appreciate it.” 

“Oh?” Ron cranked his head back around and cocked a ginger eyebrow at Harry. “And who said I did? Next three rounds at the Leaky’s on you, Harry, returning the favour. Remember that, yeah?” 

“Bloody what?! **Three**? _Merlin_ , Ron!” Harry yelled at the Floo but it was already empty. Sighing, he closed his eyes and concentrating, Apparating to Diagon. 

For all his mad rushing, Harry was still an uncomfortable quarter hour belated sitting down to supper at the Manor with Draco, Narcissa and several left-over party guests from the previous evening. Draco, he decided after a careful, covert assessment, no longer looked likely to imminently expire but he was still dreadfully pallid, even for him. He was, however, dressed to the nines in a subdued yet festive green velvet ensemble, quite putting Harry’s trusty old dress blacks in the shade. Narcissa, resplendent in a glittering silvery robe, twinkled at him and excused his tardiness with a veritable butter-boat of gracious chatter, all of which Harry had to fend off as best as he could, given most it concerned the exhibition match he had not attended.

The pièce de résistance of the evening, apparently, was the unveiling of the Manor’s brand new large-screen telly, installed in one of the larger drawing rooms. The company trooped there en masse after supper and were subject to a screening of one of the more enjoyable Muggle ballets Harry had ever seen: the Nutcracker, as performed by the London Royal Muggle PhilaWhatsits and Whosits, all very posh. Draco had said little enough all evening but he made sure he sat close by Harry on a settee tucked discreetly farther back in the capacious room and clasped his hand, jerking his chin toward the flickering screen when the cameras panned the orchestra and, sure enough, there were indeed the requisite number of drummers going at it. 

He annoyed Harry to no end by pointing at them and ticking off the count on his fingers, muttering under his breath all the while, apparently impervious to Narcissa’s searing sideways stare and Harry’s several repeated sharp elbows-in-the-ribs.

“Will you stop? People are staring, Malfoy!”

“Yes, but see them all? Not exactly what I had in mind, Harry,” he whispered in Harry’s ear, leaning close. “But in the spirit, at least.” He blinked at Harry uncertainly, pressing a quick kiss against his temple, right by his faded scar. “Erm...still. Good enough to warrant acceptance of a formal proposal tomorrow, do you think?” 

“Yes!” Harry hissed, and silenced him with a quite firm buss right on his lips. “Now shhh! Or your mum will hex us both!” 


	13. A Crown (Paper, Silvered, Bit Crumpled)

_Day Twelve: I Gave My Love A Crown (Paper, Silvered, Bit Crumpled)_

“Finally!” Draco exclaimed, dragging Harry around an unexpected corner, and into a small abandoned sitting room-cum-study located well to the rear of the imposing and annoyingly super-sized Manor. 

Dust covers draped all the furniture and it was lit only by the faint glow of low-burning sconces and the last of the winter’s fading afternoon light peeping through heavy velveteen drapes. Harry got the immediate impression of rose pink and ecru and was struck by a sudden urge to have tea and discuss kneazles; it was that sort of room, really.

“I fucking thought they’d _never_ go. Mum said _nothing_ to me about having a House Party! This is _not_ how I wanted our day to go, Harry; believe me _please_ \--”

“I know!” Harry stopped him midstream with a kiss. “Does your mum always take her hostess duties so seriously? We needed to Floo to the Burrow a half hour ago!” 

“Shite, right.” Draco’s brow went thunderous. He grasped at Harry’s elbows, giving them a squeeze. “Sorry! I nearly forgot about _that_. No wonder you’ve been on pins-and-needles, eh?”

“Well…” Harry was, but. It wasn’t necessarily facing down the Weasley assortment that niggled him. It was the all-day-long anticipation of what Draco might do next for Twelve Days. 

Draco threw his hands up in the air and huffed, looking flustered. Harry tilted his head at him, intent.

“Look, Harry, this isn’t how I wanted to do this at all, and I promise I’ll be quick about it, but I’d rather be tied to the tail of a Blast-ended Skrewt than be forced to ask you the most important question of my life in front of a fucking audience, alright? Especially the Weasleys. I think they might tolerate me now; I’m not about to push it!”

Draco looked a bit stricken at the notion, truly he did. His gaze was all dark and silvery, imploring Harry’s understanding. 

“Oh?” Harry nodded, smiling slowly, immediately calming down. 

He rather thought the Weasleys would forgive him if he arrived late but as a very much engaged man. If nothing else, Ron would have a laugh at Harry’s expense and Hermione would have the pleasure of smirking at them both knowingly, as she so liked to do. Molly would absolutely whip out that jersey she’d been ‘secretly’ knitting for Draco for ages now and probably spell it right on him for a fitting. The rest of the pack would likely take every opportunity to rib him except for Arthur. Arthur, who really liked Draco and loved to discuss the American ‘baseball’ with him. 

“Really?” he went on leadingly, stepping away from the doorway and tugging Draco along with him. There was an old settee just there and a rather plush ruby-red round carpet placed before it. “The ‘most important’, you say?” He batted his not insignificant lashes and glanced up and over at Draco as they both subsided upon the flattened old cushions, being as beguiling as he possibly could be without bursting out into laughter. He’d not thought that Draco might have lost his nerve sometime along the way but it was just a bit charming of him, nonetheless. “Hmmm,” he hummed, placing a heavy hand on Draco’s knee. “And what might that be, love?” 

“Bugger.” Draco blushed furiously and swiveled his eyes to focus on the floor. “Tease.” It was a dark wood, well polished, but it still sucked up the dim light that seeped through the heavy winter window hangings. The carpet, Harry decided, really was elegant. He wondered fleetingly if they could ‘borrow’ it for their own study at Grimmauld. “Not like you don’t _know_ , Potter,” Draco went on, peevishly. “What I’m getting at. Twelve Days, isn’t it? You know what comes at the end of it, always? I told you I’d be asking you, didn’t I?” 

“Uh-huh. So? Are you planning on going down on one knee, then, Malfoy?” Harry grinned, squeezing that kneecap meaningfully. Yep, boney. He slid his hand up farther, seeking the warmth of a well-toned thigh under fine fabric. “Because I’d quite like a picture of that, you know. A keepsake, to show the children. For our mantle, darling.” 

“Arse. Pfft!” Affixing Harry with a very speaking stare, Draco abruptly slithered off the settee and folded himself down onto the floor, assuming the classic position. “There. I’m down, Harry. Happy now?” 

“Yes...er. Almost, not quite,” Harry replied calmly, and did likewise, sinking to his knees before his lover, reaching out to grab at Draco’s empty hands and holding them. He gripped them tightly, trying to send every assurance he could through the warm link of fingers. “This, erm. This is better.” 

“Yeah. It is, thanks.” Draco was clearly grateful but mostly just intensely serious, his eyes running over Harry’s face as if to memorize every inch of it. “Well. Start as we mean to go on, right, Potter? On the same level?” 

“Right on, Malfoy. Always.” Harry nodded sharply, full of everything good he’d ever imagined, the fine bubbly sensation of the sheer joy of arriving at this moment adding a brilliant edge to everything in the room, including Draco. No, _especially_ Draco. “You first, though.” 

“I love you, of course.” Draco firmed his lips and tightened his fingers about Harry’s, till they fully intertwined, warming each other’s skin against the still chill of the long unused study. “For a long time now. I would have asked last December, you know,” he said softly, “but I didn’t quite dare. Not then.” 

“No,” Harry agreed, just as quietly, and waited patiently for Draco’s next words. 

Draco shook his head slightly, sighing, his hair catching the thin beams of late afternoon light and reflecting them. Harry marvelled at it silently and had to restrain himself from reaching up to smooth the strands down, as Draco liked. He was such a lovely man, through and through. 

“I wasn't entirely certain about this year, either, to be frank,” Draco continued, his voice low and raw. “Didn’t want you to think I was forcing it. Not even for a moment.” He looked up suddenly, his eyes wide, pupils very dark in the watery light. “But I believe I’ve reached that painful point of not wanting to ever, ever be without you, Harry. Not a single moment more, not if I can help it.”

Harry’s face twisted, and Draco’s sharpened. “Oh? What?”

He blinked at Harry’s rapid change of expression--and Harry wasn't even quite sure what that actually was!--and burst out into a short, sharp laugh, shaking his pale head so fast his fringe flew. 

“Merlin, no! No, no, no, gods no! That sounded creepy as fuck, didn’t it? Stand down, you. I don’t mean it that way, you know. I’m not one of your freaky fan club, Harry. Never was and never will be a pathetic Potter arse-licker.”

“No,” Harry breathed, the spike of remembered fear and loathing passing as quickly as it came. “You’re not.” 

“It’s more,” Draco went on, sobering. “It’s more like my day is better when I wake up with you there, right by me. When I know I’m having a meal with you after work’s through and then I’m dead certain that when the day’s fully gone and done, I’ll still be with you all through the night. I mean, the shagging, of course, yeah? Gods, fuck--the shagging. You make me burn.” Harry’s eyes went wide at Draco’s growl, the predatory rumble of it sending a spark straight down his spine and though to his cock, a hundred billion volt charge of desire. 

“Oh, god!” 

“Yeah,” Draco agreed, eyes brilliant, “but no, more than that. You make me so fucking hungry, so filled with lust and want and need I can hardly bear it sometimes, but also. But, also? Harry. _Harry_.” 

He stopped, swallowing hard, the predatory look in his pale eyes wiped clean away as if it had never been. The room was dead quiet; Harry realized with a start he was holding his breath and had been, all this time. 

“But also, my love, my Harry, and I suppose so much more important: I want to sleep, just right next to you. Every night--every night. I want that so badly, to know that I may, that you’ll want me there too. Every night of the remainder of our lives. If I may.” 

“Draco…” Harry blinked back moisture. It was infuriating; he so wanted to see clearly. “Oh! _Draco_.” 

“It’s that. I don’t want to be without you, Harry.” Draco looked forlorn, his expression clouding over, lips downturned in a faint grimace. “I’m not sure I can manage anymore, actually. It hurts when you’re not there. I miss you too much, I’m bloody lonely all week long and it’s horrible--horrible. Hateful. Utterly ridiculous, when it doesn’t need be like that, none of it.”

“No!” Harry mouthed, shaking his head frantically. Their hands were tight together like bindings, Unbreakable, unyielding, fast stuck. 

“Understand?” Draco asked hopefully. “That’s why I’m asking you now, finally. Not last year; I couldn’t. But now, for the honour, for the bloody relief of knowing I can call you mine and you will call me yours, because I am, Harry, and I so want you to be. Because I could swear I’m not the only one of us who feels this way?” 

“No!” Harry couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I--I--no--I mean **_yes_** , you gi--”

“Brilliant--oh, bloody brilliant, Harry!” Draco cut in, glittering with a sharp uptick of honest-to-Merlin glee. “There you go! Damn, Harry, yes, _finally_.” 

He must’ve been reading the story writing itself on Harry’s face all along, the message being telegraphed by Harry’s shining eyes and strangely working mouth and lofting eyebrows, for he was all lit up with a glorious grin, broadcasting purest joy--this incredible burst of a blooming, booming energy Harry found instantly infectious. He whooped, jiggling on his knees, and Harry nearly whooped right along with him. Would've definitely, if he could’ve formed any sort of syllabic coherency. But there wasn’t time for it; Draco broke the handfast and dragged Harry straight to him, plastering them together tighter than sardines in a tin, his hot smiling face stuffed into Harry’s neck, his heart pounding away so hard as to rock them both where they wobbled, laughing and panting and maybe a little weepy too. 

“Yes! You do see it, what I’m saying?” Draco caught his breath with a gasp and began babbling away, lips drifting over Harry’s face, finding places to kiss practically everywhere. “That’s why,” he said, between kisses, “the Twelve Days Gifts, this year. I had to, absolutely had to at least try it on, Harry, and hope for the best, you know? And it worked out--it bloody well worked out!”

Harry parted his lips, ready to respond with ‘Yes, yes, I do, _now_ ’ or perhaps ‘Of course it worked out; are you barking?’, but Draco didn’t--and maybe literally couldn’t--stop rattling on: 

“Harry, it’s that you make me feel as though the world is _possible_. Everything about you, in and out, all of it, all together--I’d not change a particle of you, I like it all so much. The way you smell, the things you think up and let spill out of that mouth--oh, Merlin, that mouth!--the way you look at me sometimes, your bloody hair and the stuff that goes on underneath it. Gods, your heart, Harry. So brave--so very kind--so forgiving. I--I can’t--I.” Draco stopped abruptly, apparently struck dumb for a half-second. “Bloody! You know? It’s infuriating, it’s maddening that I don’t have or even know all the words to say it, Harry--only these. Just these, trite as they are, they’re still so fucking true.” Draco’s throat worked; his gaze was fathoms deep of silver and hot onyx, a fire that seemed to burn only for Harry. “I love you. I want, so much, to marry you, I do, so--how do people even bear being this happy? Are you as happy as I am, Harry? I want you to be, I want you always to be.” 

Harry inhaled sharply and wrapped his arms hard around Draco’s shoulders, squeezing his eyes shut, not even noticing how his specs frames were denting his nose from being jammed sideways or that Draco’s return embrace was almost bruising. He tried, very hard, to drag out the words, but ended with choking out something garbled that was meant to be “Yes!” and “I love you too, I love you so much!” and maybe even an accusatory “What the fuck have you been waiting for, arse?” 

It made no sense, what poured out his mouth was nonsense, rubbish, a tangle of syllables; Draco nodded anyway, wrenching back and away, searching Harry’s eyes for his answer--he must have found it. It was good. It worked, must’ve, and Draco at last stopped looking like he was going to fall off a cliff and more like the man Harry adored and admired and wanted to spend his life beside, in the company of, breathing the same air, under the same sun and moon and stars. 

They keeled over, falling and flailing off heels and kneecaps and knocked yet more bony bits together, laughing like loons, until Draco gathered the wherewithal sufficient to drag them up upon the sheeted settee and wrap his arms around Harry. They kissed, snogging gustily, messy, with saliva on chins and lips and cheeks, and their hands were all over each other. There were still yet more words but the horrendous pressure had eased: they were little scraps of endearments, of exclamations, or simply each other’s names. Harry’s mind was shattering, delighted, full of glimpses of futures he’d only ever heard tell of, had desired so deeply yet felt were always just out of reach. And Draco really wouldn’t shut up; he surfed on, buoyed up by his confession, perhaps, nattering on about how that first time in the loo had meant _so much_ , and how his skin _ached_ with loneliness on the nights Harry wasn’t there beside him, and he wanted very much for them to be married by _Beltane,_ please and thank you. 

“I want--I need,” Harry broke in abruptly, struggling to get a hand down to where it mattered, as they were both all decked out in their holiday finery for Weasley’s--oh, Merlin, the Weasley’s, bloody fuck! “You need, please--your dick, git. Give it to me. Want to touch!”

“I--fuck yes, me too; fuck, bloody robes--Harry, gods, you’re so hard for me, oh Harry.” Red-faced, breathless, groping, they managed. Harry gulped and went boneless for a second from sheer relief, straining to get his thighs as far apart as possible when still mostly hampered so that Draco could reach it. They thrust and bucked and ground together, frotting, and it felt like a benefice, a blessing to Harry. “Gods, you’re--so beautiful. How can you be so beautiful, Harry? But you are, you are,” Draco whispered, his voice harsh and guttural, but his hand was firm and gentle, and then Harry came. 

He didn’t stop to fall into the pleasant abyss, the one Draco always managed to send him diving down into. No time for that; he wanted his mouth on that swollen cock, that long, pale prick with the rosy bulbous head wet and slick and wanting, and Draco whined, gasping with laughter and slid obligingly sideways on the settee, prying his belt off, his flies apart. He spread his legs wide and then wider to make room enough for Harry to kneel and have what he so wanted and then curled in, stooped above Harry’s head like some eager raptor--but his fingertips laid on Harry’s hair were light like thistledown, petting. 

It wasn’t more than thrice. All it took, three slides and a swallow, and Harry was barely in rhythm when it was all over but for the shouting. But neither of them were in the slightest capable shouting, only giggling softly like silly fools and saying studid things like “I’m sorry! Too soon?” and “No! Fuck no, never too soon-oh! You have spunk on your specs, sorry!” and “Fuck me blind, I needed that, your mouth on me, something _awful_.”

Oh, and possibly an ‘I adore you, you know; stupidly so,’ 'It's hard to say sometimes, isn't it?' and maybe a few ‘Me, too’s here and there. 

* * *

They were late to the Burrow. It was, Harry reflected, patting down his hastily refreshed robes and hoping his hair wasn’t still obviously shag-hair, always going to be like that, probably. Prying Draco off him had been a job-and-a-half. The man was like a kneazle on catnip around him lately and Harry was no better, honestly. They’d spent a full further hour just simply laying entangled, making plans and bickering over them, snogging a bit, dozy and dazed with a mutual euphoria. But family was family, and the Weasleys were dear people, and Harry really wanted to hear all about Ron and Hermione’s happy ending. He knew there’d be one, but there was that little matter of the betting pool and his gift for Draco had been very dear. 

Twelve Days, too, for Teddy was to be present, along with Andromeda, and Narcissa had promised--and did so--to arrive just in time for the pudding. Not that he and Draco had been on the Burrow doorstep much before that. 

“Ahem,” Harry cleared his throat eventually, when the flurry of feasting and toasting his best mates for their finally official engagement had subsided to a dull roar. They had all moved as a group to the Weasley's drawing room and little Teddy had been gifted with his WWW's Twelve Days Kid's Kit, much to his delight and amusement. Harry adjusted the silver paper crown Ted had given him from their cracker so it tilted rakishly over one eye; he was feeling a bit daring this night, and very much like a king, on top of the world. “Oi! Oi, I say!” 

“Bloody hell, Harry, that was right by my ear!” Draco protested, but showed no sign of being willing to unglue himself from Harry’s side. They'd made a beeline for one of the smaller settees and promptly laid claim to it during the flurry of Arthur passing round the cordial glasses and the mince tarts. “What, now? Why are you shouting, love?” 

“Yes, why are you, Harry? Something to tell us, mate?” Ron smirked, shifting Hermione slightly so he could peer inquisitively over at the two of them. Draco flushed guiltily immediately, which Harry decided was rather adorable. “Hmm. Could it be something even to top Hermione’s agreeing to marry yours truly? Because I don't think there’s much going to beat that. Not tonight, at least.” He nodded about at his gathered family and assorted, each and every one of them occupied with chatting over some detail of the long-awaited Granger-Weasley engagement. 

“Well…” Harry smiled softly. “No, but maybe it’s just as good as, yeah? It’s more a sort of personal revelation.” 

“Well, alright, Harry, go on,” Mrs Weasley motioned, settling herself finally upon the one long sofa already crowded with various wriggly small children and their appropriate adults. “We’re listening.” 

“All ears, Harry!” Ginny sang out, poking her head in from the kitchen. The sounds of washing up were to be heard behind her. Percy loomed up behind her and solemnly tipped his chin. “Talk, damn you, please. I literally cannot wait to what _you_ might have to share, Mister ‘I Never Speak of _Those_ Things’.”

"Shhh, Gin! Don't you mock." Percy shushed her, a simple jinx to stitch her lips shut for a momemt, for which Harry was immensely grateful. "Let Harry get on with it."

“Are you actually--I mean, you're doing this _right now_?” Draco demanded urgently, a protesting subsonic wail, directly by Harry’s eardrum. He gripped Harry's bicep, shaking it, a catchi in his voice. “I meant to have a party, a formal announcement; you can’t be serious, Potter! I’ve not even told Mum yet! And what about poor Ronald over there? You’ll crush him!” 

“No, no, relax, will you?” Harry hissed, waving off that idea, and hastily dug the shrunken package containing his precious Twelve Days present out his pocket, then nearly fumbling it into the sofa cushions under the fierce jostle of Draco’s jabbing at him furiously with what felt like seventeen additional sharp elbows. “Stop that! Merlin, you think I don’t know that? I was there, remember?” 

"You were," Draco subsided, smiling slow and sweet, instantly reversing course and settling. He shifted, giving Harry's arm a conciliatory pat. "Alright, then, love, do as you will."

"Ta," Harry replied, grinning in return and likely just as foolishly. "I will. Just trust me."

“So, Harry?” Hermione prompted, when apparently there’d been too long a waiting quiet in the Weasley living room while Harry and Draco gazed at each other like mooncalves. She pursed her lips and looked expectant. “You had something to say?” 

“Oi, mate, and what’s that you have there?” Ron added, sitting forward to peer at the gaily wrapped packet clutched in Harry’s hands. "You showing us something good?" 

“Yes, alright! This? Yeah, it is good, Ron. Just wait; I'll show you.” Wrenching his eyes off his beloved with reluctance, Harry turned his attention back to the room. Leaning forward, he placed the box upon the low table before them, shoving cups and saucers aside willy nilly to make sufficient room and then waved his wand over it. “There! See that? Can everyone see that?” he asked the gathering, raising his voice over the happy hullabaloo as the Engorgio did its work and the gift became substantially larger. 

The pocket-size rectangular box sprang to full size, gaily wrapped and ever so slightly larger than a small caudron, but taller and much less wide. Draco swore sharply and got a hand on it to keep it from toppling over as it teetered under the force of enlarging. Charlie, orbiting round the other side of their small sofa, obligingly jumped in to save his mum's favourite antique crystalware from being accidentally smashed to smithereens by whisking it off to the sideboard. 

"Oh, that's pretty, Harry," Hermione said. "Very fine." 

“Right, then," Draco said, when the sitiation was stabilized. He tapped the box with a considering forefinger, producing a hollow wooden thunking sound. "What’s this particular gift, Harry?” he said, eyeing it narrowly. “Another for Teddy?” He nodded to the little boy, fast asleep in his great-aunt’s silk berobed lap. "Or something for our happy couple?" 

“No,” Harry said, proudly. “This one’s for _you_ , Draco Malfoy, and you may do me the pleasure of getting straight to the opening of it, as I really am dying to know if I got it right. Took me ages to figure out what to give you, you bloody difficult bugger; I was in that shop forever, choosing it. The Rosen & Guilder Wix were likely fucking glad to see the last of me.”

“Hmph! Language, Harry!” Molly exclaimed, clapping her hands over the small ears of her youngest grandchild. “Mind!” 

“Oh, sorry, Molly,” Harry apologized absently, preoccupied by Draco’s enlightened expression and his own increasingly unsteady heart rate. “But, please, Draco, will you open it now and put me out my misery? It’s my Twelve Days gift for you. Finally.” 

“What, Harry? For me? Merlin!” Draco was clearly shocked and pleased, and he took up Harry’s request immediately, his deft fingers working off the Spellotape and teasing apart the edges of the elegant paper wrapping charm the Wix at Rosen & Guilder’s Exclusive Tweakes and Fancy Oddmentes Shoppe had applied to it. “You didn’t have to, you know.” he murmured softly, head bent over his task. “It’s not especially customary, love.” 

“I know,” Harry replied just quietly, intent upon Draco’s face as the last of the ribbon and tissue fell away and a tall and delicately carved wooden clockcase was revealed. “But I wanted to. I hope...well, I hope you like it, Draco. They said you would, the both of them, when I told them about you and all you've been doing for me, all these Twelve Days. So...what do you think? Oh! But, maybe wait till I show you what it does, alright? I mean, other than just tell you the time.” 

‘It’ was a clock, after all. A most glorious clock, granted. No ordinary Wizarding clock, either. Draco rolled his eyes at it, but not so much in mockery. More of a silent ‘Pfft!’ at Harry’s extravagance. But his cheeks were tinged rosy and that wasn't entirely due to the alcohol. 

“Right. So, this here,” Harry said, taking heart. He turned his attention to the admiring murmuration from the sea of ginger-caps. “Is my Twelve Days Gift to Draco. And it's _amazing_.” 

“Mate!” Ron made much of looking pained though his eyes twinkled. “You know when I sent you to that shop, I didn’t mean for you to bloody show me up. Unfair!” 

“Yes, alright, I know, sorry,” Harry shrugged apologetically. "I had to find the perfect thing, though, and they were the only ones who had it." He smiled at Hermione, who--entirely unfazed--was pointedly examining the very luxe sparkly ring upon her finger, turning it this way and that so the facets caught fire in the lamplight. Molly tutted. “Not to steal your thunder, you two, but I finally sorted out how the Twelve Days thing really works, and I had eleven days lost I had to make up for, so it was today or not at all. But trust me, Ron, mate, I can now appreciate the pain and agony you’ve been going through. Draco too, of course.” 

Ron threw back his head and guffawed, while Draco issued a quiet snort and poked a curious finger at the series of little doors tucked under the ornately carved wooden canopy. It was sort of Palladian, the thing, but with a strong flavour of a Parisien opera house. 

“No, seriously,” Harry insisted, looking at his gift happily. It was very fine, he had to admit. The clock face was a misty mother-of-pearl oval, set upon and above a miniature archway that extended out like a porte-cochère, almost concealing all the jewel-and-enamel inlaid parquetry doors. Curlicues and furbelows were carved into the wood, a veritable plethora of stylized flora and fauna bedecking it, including a few strikingly familiar gargoyles and a lovely tracery phoenix rising on the backside of the case. Behind the door, though, existed the true wonder of the clock, the inner workings of which, for Harry’s specific needs and urgency, had been no less than miraculous. Eleven days and a lifetime, all to pack into one wondrous present, oh my! “This is really special, even for a Wizarding clock. It plays the whole thing, the song, and there’s all these little figures. See? Watch this.”

He touched his wand to the top of it, sitting back with satisfaction as the familiar strains started up and the clock case began to emit a faint golden glow, a sign that magic was about to happen. In truth, Harry had achieved that delicious muzziness borne of of simple happiness, of relief and after great shagging and no small amount of toasting his best mates’s happy news. Not to mention the nearly catatonic satiation induced by the metric tonne of delicious food Molly always laid out over the holidays. But simultaneously his awareness levels were ramped up, hyper-attuned to the man beside him, to his adoptive family, even to the faces of the Black sisters, who both looked immensely amused. But especially to Draco, sitting restive beside him, clearly pleased to be recipient of a gift from Harry but equally obviously not quite certain as to what was Harry thinking in the giving of it, here, before so many interested people. 

“Oh, it’s fully musical, Harry?” Andromeda asked idly, resettling the child in her arms as Narcissa passed Teddy over. She leant forward to examine a bejeweled pear tree emerging from a doorway, complete with a tiny partridge. It swung about, carried on an invisible rail, and exited through another set of little doors. The musical notes of the old carol poured out of the clock casing, harmonious and solemnly jolly, and a parade of birds of various sorts began. “Oh, indeed, how delightful. You know I seem to recognize the handiwork; strikes me that Mother had one very similar. Just a music box, though. Rather smaller.”

“She did, yes,” Narcissa nodded, “but Harry, this clock is much finer. Well done.” 

“It’s old, I know that,” Harry nodded happily. “And yeah, very musical!” 

“It’s exquisite,” Draco said softly, bumping shoulders very gently. “But really you needn’t have.” 

“But I did--that’s the point,” Harry said firmly, turning to look at his unofficial fiance. “It’s every day, what I feel. Every hour, every minute. I can’t let you not know that.” 

“Too right,” Arthur commenting, leaning over the back of the sofa to gaze with pleasure upon the finery of the wee milkmaids, all merrily swinging their golden buckets. “Best to tell each other every day, lads. Molly and I can attest.” Molly tutted again, blushing like a flustered schoolgirl. Ginny chortled from the kitchen doorway, making gagging motions, at least until Percy shushed her again with a threatening frown. 

“T’is true,” Fleur added, cozied up next to her husband and looking exquisite in a pale blue organza robe. “Every year, we do this, the _Douze Jours_ ," she went on, as Bill nodded. “Eet iz important, ezzpecially as eet goes on, yes? L'amour.” 

The Weasleys all made various noises of smiling agreement, falling quiet and enjoying the antics of the lords leaping and the tooting pipers, till at last all the many little doors slammed themselves shut, the music ended, and the clock seemed to have given its all. Harry, firmly budged up against Draco, sighed into his ear, knowing exactly what was coming next, and breathed ‘Wait for it.” 

“There’s more?” Draco asked, just as quietly, turning his head to look at Harry enquiringly. Their noses bumped, their lips brushed together--really, it must have been accidental--and somebody hooted and whistled. 

“Of course there’s more,” Harry whispered seriously, steadfastly ignoring George and Charlie. “It’s for you, isn’t it?” 

Draco kissed him, just like that. But the clock? The marvellous Clock!

The Twelve Days Clock went all out, giving its all, heart and soul. It was like a firework bursting, the final bit. The main doors of the clock came banging wide open on their itty-bitty hinges and out of them poured all the many, many little figures--the four birds, calling; the five golden rings, jangling musically; the swans with their cygnet swimming gracefully through the air. The pear tree and the pipers, and the dancers and the drummers, kilted up and all banging away like anything--not forgetting the turtledoves, bearing the ribands of tiny kissing balls in their metallic beaks, nor the French hens, pecking like mad 'round the base of the pear tree. And the entire Song sounded again, pure and simple and enchanting, radiating out of the entire clock case for one final reprise as the gathered Weasley family and assorted gaped happily at the spectacle and expressed a whole new chorus of ‘ooohs!’ and ‘ahhhs!’

“There,” Harry stated, interrupting the lingering hush that remained after the clock had shut up shop and packed itself discreetly away. “Brilliant, isn’t it? And no cow shite, either." He eyed Draco sideways, a teasing gleam in his eye. "Nor ballet.”

“Oi!” Ron growled, shaking a mock-threatening finger. “Stop it, Harry.” 

“Yes, do, Harry,” Hermione said reprovingly. “I was actually very happy to go the farm with Ron. It was a welcome break from saving your arses at the Ministry.” 

“Oh, Merlin, yes! Thank you so much for that,” Draco said, animated at he turned to face his old Potions rival. “I do swear, Slytherin's honour, If anyone ever dares claim you’re not absolutely brilliant at running that place from the shadows, I shall be happy to hex them to little pieces, Hermione. Freeze-Frightfully left us a bleeding stinking mess up in Games; it’s taken everything we had to even get this far.” He shuddered, closing his eyes briefly. “And without you intervening, no doubt we’d have still been there, hacking away at it. I'd never have had a hope of having Harry out of there before the weekend.”

“Well, I’m pleased to hear that, Draco,” Hermione replied, and looked it, too. Ron nodded approvingly beside her. “That’s what TOOHIIP is there for, you know. Efficiency and evidence-based decision-making.” 

“Something the Ministry has been lacking for far too long.” Arthur added with feeling. “Yes, thanks very much, Hermione. Molly did appreciate that I was home early to help with the pie making.” 

“I think we can safely say we all appreciate Hermione,” Harry laughed, and raised his long-neglected mug of Weasley cheer in her honour. “Hip hip, I say!” 

“Hip hip!” the Weasleys roared, and even Narcissa joined in. Harry looked all about him, filled with a happiness so great it was almost impossible to contain. He had to grin and grin and swallow back chuckles, feeling as if he and Draco had been all along climbing, seeking higher and higher ground after the nadir that had been Voldemort--and that they had found it, finally, their alt, their altitudes. 

That they’d found each other again, stumbling on the battlefield. And by mutual consent, unspoken, had chosen to go up. 

Up! To fly again, and shake off the fucking blood-soaked muck.

 _Together_. 

That _was_ worthy of song. Of gifts that said ‘I love you’, every single bloody day, every hour. Of all the little acts and actions, accumulating: hot coffee in the mornings and funny roasted birds served under glass domes in foreign cities, dress robes tucked thoughtfully into weekend bags, shagging in the office and the super-extra-potent locking spells that made it possible and kept their ‘privacy’ private. The last Hangover potion, the perfect carpet, an unexpected broom ride and an evening’s drunken slow dancing, all of these.

“Alright there, Harry?” Draco murmured, jolting Harry out of his musing. His grey eyes glittered. “You look...strange. Not that you don’t normally, of course. Still shaggable and I love you very much but...odd?” 

“Yes, very,” Harry replied, not bothered at all by a little fond ribbing. What with being certain he was exactly the sort of 'odd' Draco Malfoy preferred and required. "Was just thinking, that’s all. You?” 

“Oh, yes. Topping." Draco glanced about them, taking in the droswsy children, the smiling faces, Ginny's happy burble of laughter ringing out unfettered as Narcissa shared some details of her unexpected house party. "This is nice--quite. I quite like my present, too. I’ll be sure to show you just how much, when we’re home,” he promised, the banked heat of his look intimating any number of delicious ways he might show Harry his appreciation. Their mutual gaze held for a long moment, lustful and cozy-warm and delicately loving, a feast of feelings, until Draco’s attention was called away by a question from his mother. Breathless but blissful, well pleased with well nigh every aspect of living, Harry let himself ease back against the sofa squabs, anchoring an arm about Draco’s waist as he went, and simply sat for a little while. Peaceful and quiet-like, breathing in and out the lovely pervasive odour of hearth-warmed spruce, telling over in his mind some of the things Draco had said to him earlier. Some of the things he'd managed to finally say himself, after so long a time carrying them about in his heart. 

George and Arthur had meanwhile succumbed to their curiosity and wandered over to poke at Draco’s clock, the Black sisters had heads together over a sleeping Teddy, chatting over the antics of Narcissa’s Antiquarians, and Percy, Charlie and Ginny could clearly be heard from the kitchen, squabbling over whether another round of mince tartlets was needed to cushion the soon oncoming snifters of brandy. Ron and Hermione were discreetly canoodling on the couch opposite and Bill and Fleur had disappeared up the stairwell altogether, faces flushed and eyes only on each other. This, Harry thought, hand tightening upon Draco’s hip, was _home._ Exactly as Grimmauld House had become much more ‘home’ with Draco in it, or Draco’s posh designer flat when they both were in it, or now even the bloody Manor, and Harry? Harry adored the view.

Like the fabled partridge, safe perched on high in his very own pear tree, Harry relished it, revelled in it, this feeling, and very much indeed. Perhaps he was a bird of a different feather entirely, and perhaps he'd had to wait a while before discovering his very particular 'turtledove', his lover, beloved and intended.

But that didn't matter, didn't detract one whit, one iota from Harry's joy. Exactly right by his side, Draco was--where he'd always been, really. And where he would be, for Twelve Days and forever. 


End file.
